


Soldiers

by B_Radley



Series: Fulcrum and Covenant: Genesis [27]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Brotherhood, Families of Choice, Friendship/Love, Injury Recovery, Love, Multi, Rescue, Slavery (rescue), Trauma, zygerrians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: A family finds each other in the aftermath of the inferno that was the Clone War. Together they will heal, while trying to fight against the darkness in their own way.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wild Harp Slung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9353351) by [B_Radley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley). 
  * Inspired by [The Ebb Rises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14171862) by [B_Radley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley). 
  * Inspired by [Vode An: Still a Few Bugs, or How Gregor Learned to Fly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339706) by [B_Radley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories in hyperspace.

**7976 CRC (Eighteen years after the fall of the Republic)**  
**Alliance Carrier _Draq’alyn_**  
**Lothal Orbit**

Dani Faygan looks up from the datapad at the knock on the bulkhead. She grins at the young woman who enters, immediately snapping to attention in front of her desk. Dani stands and walks around the desk, eschewing formality. She pulls Meglann into a warm, tight embrace.

They do refrain from kissing each other.

Meglann Florlin, newly promoted Lieutenant Commander in the Alliance Fleet—such as it is—touches the new rank-plaque on Dani’s jacket.

“Full Captain of the Line. One of the few in the Fleet,” Meglann says. “Not bad, love.”

“Ain’t doing so bad yourself, my sister-of-the-heart,” Dani replies. “Did your Scouting Group find anything for the Striking Group to, well, actually, _strike_?”

“Got a few promising leads. Should be enough for those overrated frigate-jockeys to do some damage. That is, if they can find their asses from a black hole in space.”

Dani laughs and reaches up, touching her junior officer’s cheek. “Be nice, youngster. I used to be one of those frigate-jockeys. You might be one someday.”

“Never. I know who my parents are,” Meglann shoots back.

“Are you doing okay? Any of the other corvette-captains giving you any trouble?” Dani asks after the laughter fades.

“Not really. They all think they can do my job better than me, but nobody has patted me on the head and said ‘run along little girl’,” Meglann replies. “Wouldn’t be corvette jockeys if they didn’t think that they were better.”

Dani grins. “I should hope that they don’t pat you on the head, seeing that you’re about to reach the advanced age of thirty-one.”

“Yeah, I’m not quite decrepit like somebody who’s forty-three,” Meglann retorts.

“Watch it, infant. Still pretty sure that I can wear your ass out in anything you try. Including later tonight.”

Dani sees something other than laughter in the normally sparkling eyes after a moment.

“What is it, ‘glann?” she asks.

“Have you heard from Jame?” Meglann asks, after a moment of silence.

“No. But we didn’t expect to, yet. He’ll be back, after he sets a search for Malachor in motion, with Hondo and Rex’s contacts.”

Meglann nods, her eyes pensive.

“You’re worrying me, dear,” Dani says. “You can talk to me. I’m not just your commanding officer. You’re also, like me, closer to our Admiral than just subordinates. That Affirmation we all took those years ago on Corellia gives us a lot of leeway with each other.” She reaches over and touches the miniature frying pan symbol on the zipper loop of Meglann’s jacket. “We’ve been through a lot together—way before there was a fleet, or even a squadron.”

She closes her eyes as she thinks of Meglann and the other Links in that Affirmation. A mythological bonding, meant to protect the Covenant of Corellia—the Protector of his world, as well as to be protected by him. Nola Vorserrie. A tall, snarky Naboo, now serving as a staff officer for the Alliance. She feels her heart twist as she thinks of the other two. Ahsoka Tano, the ex-Jedi that Jame Blackthorn, 500th Covenant of Corellia and their Admiral, now seeks in the mists of the Force, whenever his connection happens to work.

Dani pushes thoughts away of the last of the Links—the Other—a Pantoran pirate now separated from them all. Separated even from Dani, her heart-bond. She touches the chain beneath her trousers, with its blue teardrop of spirit-resin. A symbol of Lassa Rhayme, that pirate. She feels the other spirit-resin, a red-gold version with a single _akul_ tooth in it. The reminder of her first heart-bond, Shaak Ti. Jame Blackthorn’s Jedi master and hunt-mother.

She opens her eyes and forces the thoughts of all of these connections aside, as she realizes that a large shadow—larger than most of his Kamino-born brothers—falls over them both. Major Tarre Tredecima, once known as Null-13, then as Drop, walks in quietly. The ex-Republic trooper nods at Meglann.

“I found this in the _Bucket_ ,” Meglann says, giving the two-decades old nickname of her ship. She pulls out a flimsi reproduction of a holo. “I’d never seen it before.”

Dani manages to sit down on the desk, before she falls down. Her purple eyes tear at the three figures depicted.

A two-decades younger version of Jame Blackthorn looks down at a young woman clad in Mandalorian armor—black, with orange highlights. J’ohlana Wren stares up at him with fire in her eyes, the trigger finger of her right hand poking him in the chestplate of blue-trimmed castoff clonetrooper armor. Dani recognizes the old hip-length canvas coat that covers both the chestplate and the green-trimmed torso plate. She smiles softly as she thinks of the fine _beskar’gam_ that J’ohlana had forged for him as a wedding gift, that had replaced his penchant for castoff plastoid. In spite of the thunderous expression on her dark bronze features, with its nose that had at one time apparently had connected with something more resilient than it, her eyes flash with laughter. Laughter that had always been under the surface with Johlana Wren, as Dani had heard from J’oh’s older sister, the Countess Ursa Wren.

Meglann touches the flimsi with her index finger. Dani sees the finger touch the third figure standing next to Blackthorn. A figure whose features are marked by a broad, if slightly bent smile on his face. Whoever had taken the holo had caught him in mid-eyeroll. Dani sees that the hand on the young woman not engaged in poking Blackthorn in his chest is handing a small stuffed clonetrooper to the living, shaven- headed version. “Who are they? Is that Gregor? Sabine and Rex told me a bit about him.”

Dani looks over at Drop, then nods slightly.

“Yes,” Drop says quietly. He moves closer to them. He touches the flimsi with his bare fingers, as well.

“That’s Jame’s late wife. J’ohlana Wren,” Dani says.

Dani hears the intake of breath from Meglann.

“That was taken right after the war,” Drop says, lifting his hand from the holo. He looks down. Both Meglann and Dani gently grip his oversized hand. “They had just helped save some of our brothers that had been enslaved.

“That was the unofficial first mission of the _Vode An_ movement. When they first realized that all of them could put aside their grief and pain and do some good. That Jame and J’oh realized that they could heal together. That they could both take care of Gregor.”

Dani sees Drop’s dark eyes glistening. “Jame was mourning the Jedi—especially Ahsoka and General Ti. J’oh was trying to atone for something. Gregor was lost, after his head injury and after what our other brothers had done.”

He looks down. “I think that I might’ve put them on that course. A course that led them to loss and grief and pain again. Ahsoka did, too, even though she didn’t know it at the time.

“That was the beginning of over a year of happiness for all three of them.”

All three of them are silent as they move over to the small settee under the port. Drop begins to speak of the past.

**Hyperspace: the unknown regions**

Rex starts awake as he hears a snorting sound from the forward part of the old shuttle. He palms his eyes as the datapad screen blurs. He lowers the footrest of the comfortable chair and rises, rolling his eyes as he stretches, hearing the popping and cracking of his joints. Only for an instant does he envy Drop his slightly slower aging rate; the one-and-a-half years-to-one, rather than a two-to-one.

He closes the datapad, then walks to the starboard side, into the small bunkroom. Melch, the small Ugnaught pirate, looks up from one bunk, with his eyes narrowed in disgust at the occupant of the other bunk. The one responsible for the out-of-sync speeder engine noise that had woken both of them.

Hondo Ohnaka; legendary pirate. At least in his own mind.

He nods at Melch, then walks through to the small kitchen area. He grins at the expensive caf-maker, the centerpiece of the various second-hand cooking and food storage appliances in the small room. He remembers Gregor describing the machine as probably costing more than the ship itself had—at least before all of the upgrades that were done by grateful GAR troopers who had been rescued. He looks around the converted troop and cargo bay of the old _Nu_ -class. He feels his grin fade as he thinks of how much time he had spent in this type of ship in his youth. Examples that had never felt as much like a home as this one, with its subdivided, comfortable compartments.

Thoughts of his youth cut through his heart as he remembers those he had flown with in these ships and others similar to them. As it has in the last several weeks, his mind immediately locks onto one of those identical, but unique faces. One who had died in his arms on the Imperial Dome on Lothal. He closes his eyes at the last time he had seen Gregor’s face. An instant after his brother closed his eyes, finally at peace after a lifetime of fighting and surviving, in one way or another. A highly skilled Republic Commando officer, Gregor had spent the last year or so of the war missing, his memories spotty after a head injury.

Rex smiles as he thinks of Gregor’s last years. Years spent either with Rex and Wolffe, slinging joopa and laughing—making sure that there was plenty of laughter for both Rex and Wolffe, or, before that, with another loving family of choice.

Rex moves to the entry compartment, right under the cockpit. He pushes the button that lowers the rear pilot’s chair to the deck. He sits carefully in it and rises into the cockpit. To join the only surviving member of that first, loving family of choice for Gregor. Gregor’s first Jedi commander, and later General, Taliesin Croft.

Now known as Rear-Admiral Jame Blackthorn. Hunt-brother to Ahsoka Tano. Rex’s own Jedi commander—a young woman he had watched grow into a powerful rebel operative and warrior—an operative that most everyone thinks died on a hellish world at the hands of Darth Vader. Most everyone save Blackthorn and her assorted _sword-mates_ , in Corellian parlance. Rex is not sure that he shares their faith.

He would be glad not to have to mourn a sister, as he now mourns Gregor, his brother.

+=+=+=+=+=

Jame Blackthorn watches as the twisted azure of hyperspace explodes, cavorts and tumbles outside of the windows of the cockpit. His mind is settled, although his Force sense refuses to do more than hum intermittently.

 _Still a few bugs in the system_ , he thinks. He shakes his head, not as concerned as he had been a month ago. Before a sojourn in the Force, while on the newly liberated Lothal, had shown him more concrete proof that Ahsoka was still alive, if still in the depths of that mystical binding agent that they had shared since childhood. He sighs and closes his eyes, shifting his ass from its stationary position in the pilot’s chair. As he does, his right hand falls on the small gap between the ejection seat and the bulkhead. His eyes snap open as his fingers touch something that feels out of place. He digs his hand into the fissure, reaching down with both hands. In a moment, his quarry sits on his knee. He stares at it for a moment, his breath catching in his chest.

A small, white stuffed toy—a now-dirty facsimile of a Republic clone trooper stares back at him. He lifts his other hand to his forehead, then allows it to move through his gray hair. He looks down at the left handprint on the chestplate of his armor—armor forged and reforged by the loving owner of that handprint. His hand moves over to the newer, smaller handprint. A niece of the smith, J’ohlana Wren-Blackthorn—a relation now grown to a powerful warrior-artist in her own right; Sabine Wren, the Protector of Lothal.

In his mind’s eye, he sees J’ohlana grinning at him, proud of herself after winning the toy in a slightly bent shooting contest on Nal Hutta. He sees the third part of their little family, Gregor, looking at the toy with longing. He grins as he remembers the joy in Gregor’s eyes as J’oh had given it to him, making it seem that King, one of Blackthorn’s many names and guises, no longer deserved it after insulting her prowess. Neither one of the two were sure who actually conned who into giving it to Gregor.

He picks up the toy and sets it near the Heads-Up-Display of the old Clone Wars relic. He stares at it, fighting the feelings of despair at his new mission to find Ahsoka, as well as the forever-intense loss of his J’ohlana, brought back to the forefront of his heart by Gregor’s death.

He suppresses a sob as the losses cascade. He hears the co-pilot’s chair descend below. He brushes his tears away, not wanting to face questions from Ohnaka. Not wanting to burden Rex with his own grief.

As he turns, the sensation of a warm-blue-orange-white light flashes in his head as his Force sense activates, finally.

 _Remember what you have to, Bait_ , the light says in Ahsoka’s voice. _I’ll be here with you for every memory. For every step of the way into your past._


	2. One: Give me your hand, my brother, search my face;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Wisdom**
> 
> When Wisdom tells me that the world’s a speck   
> Lost on the shoreless blue of God’s To-Day...   
> I smile, and think, ‘For every man his way:   
> The world’s my ship, and I’m alone on deck!’   
> And when he tells me that the world’s a spark  
> Lit in the whistling gloom of God’s To-Night...   
> I look within me to the edge of dark,   
> And dream, ‘The world’s my field, and I’m the lark,   
> Alone with upward song, alone with light!’ 
> 
> Siegfried Sassoon

**The First Month of the year 7960 CRC (Approximately One and a half years after the Fall of the Republic)**   
**Nar Shaddaa. The Smugglers’ Moon**

Drop looks over at Rex as their brother walks into the bar. He sees the pain in Rex’s eyes, just before they both stand up. 

Gregor stops and eyes them, a placid smile on his face. His eyes flit between them both, but then seem to lock on Drop. Drop finds himself grinning as Gregor’s smile widens. He pulls him into a deep embrace, dwarfing Gregor. They break apart after close to a lifetime. Rex gives a more subdued embrace, but rests his forehead gently against Gregor’s, as they would in their days in armor.

“It’s good to see you, brothers,” Gregor says. His voice is firm, but with a slight tremor in certain words. 

“You too, Gregor,” Drop says. “Where’ve you been? You were listed as missing for so long.”

All three of them sit down. For a moment, they do nothing but exist, all three of them looking carefully at their surroundings, a dingy watering hole no different from thousands—maybe millions on this city-planet. Anyone that catches their eyes immediately looks away as the three experienced soldiers gaze at them. Drop pulls another bottle of _netra’gel_ over to Gregor. Gregor smiles his thanks, but shakes his head. “It’s kind of a blur,” Gregor says. “I only see bits and pieces. I don’t really remember much until somebody bailed me out of an arena over on Nal Hutta.” His eyes go vacant. “Or was it Nar Shaddaa?”

Drop ignores Rex’s glance, places his hand on Gregor’s arm. “It’s okay Gregor. I saw a little of the report that Colonel Gascon gave. You did yourself proud, _vod_ ,” he says quietly. 

He notices that Gregor leans into his touch and breathes deeply, as if savoring the contact. Rex moves his hand over to Gregor’s other arm. Both of them are treated to a calm smile. He looks at Drop, his eyes calm and focused. 

“So why’d you call us here, Drop?” Gregor asks. 

Drop takes a sip of his ale, looking down at the dark, spicy brew. “I think that we might be the only ones that I know of that didn’t help kill our Jedi,” he whispers. Both Rex and Gregor strain to hear him. He pushes forward. “We may not be able to help them—” He stops, pushing away the picture of a beautiful, calm young Chalactan looking at him with a warm smile in his mind. “But maybe we can help our brothers.”

Rex looks at him curiously. Drop continues,“I’ve made contact with someone—someone who is looking to see what can be done for the galaxy. They’re very secretive. We haven’t seen each other, we just communicate through encrypted comms with voice and visual modulation.”

“You think you’re being too trusting, Drop?” Rex asks. “Sounds too good to be true.”

Drop nods. “You’re right to think so, Rex. But I’ve got something I have to be careful for. Something precious to me. I won’t go off half-cocked.”

“I’m listening,” Gregor says quietly. Rex starts to open his mouth, then closes it. 

“Some of the clones are starting to be decommissioned. Fancy term for throwing them away. I haven’t heard tell of any being killed, but my contact has gotten wind of a cabal of Imperial officers—including some who were Republic Navy before—conspiring to sell the decommissioned troopers to Zygerrians and others.”

Rex gives a sound halfway between a curse and a growl. 

“Thought that’s what your reaction would be, Rexie,” Drop says. “I know you spent some time on that garden spot.” Drop turns his attention to Gregor. “I’ve heard you might know someone interested in doing some good.”

Gregor smiles. “Yeah. She might be. I’ve been out of contact for a bit, but she might be into causing some chaos. She got me out of that damned arena.” He looks down, his eyes tearing briefly, before he wipes them. “She looked after me,” he whispers. 

Drop nods. “I’m going to gather some more information. There’s a slicer with some hooks into the Darknet.” He turns to Rex.

Rex stares at him. Drop can see servos turning. 

“I guess you want me to sign up for this little field trip.” It wasn’t a question.

Drop grins. “Could be a help. You actually had your chip removed. I apparently never had one. Don’t know what happened to Gregor here,” he says.

“I think they call it brain trauma,” Gregor says dryly.

Rex continues to gaze at Drop, his eyes growing cold. 

Drop shakes his head. “You could also be a help with your knowledge of these stinking slavers,” he adds. 

Rex takes a sip of his drink, then grabs a handful of tretel nuts from the bowl. He stares at them, then drops them back. “I don’t know, Drop. I think I’m done. I fought my war. I watched my brothers going mad, trying to kill a young woman who I had watched grow into—” He stops. 

“Never known you to be a quitter, Rex.”

Rex’s eyes flash with anger. He stands up. He freezes when Gregor touches the skin of his arm. He sits back down as Gregor pulls his hand back to his own arm. “Feels good, Rex,” Gregor says absently. 

Rex closes his eyes. “I might be able to poke around Zygerria a bit. I have to make sure that there’s no bounty on me for inciting a slave rebellion or something,” he says. His mouth quirks slightly. He opens his eyes and fixes his gaze on Drop. “Not everybody is a goddamned crazy-ass Null, Drop. Some of us have had enough of war.”

“You think I haven’t, Rex? Is that it? Do you think I haven’t had my own losses?” He looks away. “I know who that young woman was that you’re talking about; that you’re trying not to name. I saw her grow as well. Along with her hunt-brother—my brother.” He closes his eyes. “I lost my love,” he whispers. “I don’t know if she’s alive. But I’m not going to sit around while the world that those three fought and maybe died for burns.” He takes a deep breath and brings his hand to Rex’s on top of Gregor’s arm. “I’m sorry. I don’t begrudge anyone their rest. I’ll take what you can give me, Rex. You’ve earned it. Hell, we all have.” He smiles tightly. “I just can’t rest yet.”

He fall silent. All three of them contemplate what they’ve lost. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Gregor walks out of the bar and moves down the dimly lit streets. He makes sure of his surroundings; in spite of the fog that has marked his existence for he doesn’t know how the hell long for; he is still first and foremost a soldier. 

_What he was born to be_. He has heard that phrase from many people, to describe their morning-to-evening jobs, their everyday mundane lives. 

He grins. He sees a passerby suddenly start at the look in his eyes. He turns the grin down, knowing that the look in his eyes when the fog is most prevalent has the effect of turning people away. None of these day-jobbers could truly say they were born to do anything in the presence of any of his brothers. 

He shakes his head as the fog returns to his vision and his mind. He moves quickly into an alley and looks left and right, then to his rear. He slumps against the wall as the miasma starts to enclose his brain. His forehead resting against the synthstone helps center him against the feelings of helplessness as he starts to lose himself in the bright colors moving rapidly in his mind. He hears himself give the giggle that precedes the thoughts jerking through his mind. Rapid thoughts that had sometimes caused him to lose track of where he was and what he was doing. 

He feels himself calming as a warm hand touches his shoulder. His mind centers as he manages recognize the voice accompanying the touch. 

“Hey, hard-charger. You okay?”

He turns and sees a _beskar’gam_ clad figure smiling at him, her dark eyes crinkling with her smile. His eyes focus on the dark red of the armor, under the dark, smiling face. Two jewels gleam in the low light in her right lower lip, as well as the opposite nostril. He shakes his head as his eyes fall on the large knife at her hip; her only apparent weapon, other than the fully loaded vambraces on her slim wrists. 

Cyn Eldar reaches up and brings her hand to his face, furthering the warmth and calm. He feels his lips rise in a smile. In his memory, through the retreating fog, he sees Cyn standing next to an older male—a figure from his own training. He hears Kal Skirata’s words, just before he left for Bothawui Proper. _If you need anything, Gregor’ika, Cyn can help you. She’ll be a friend to you, just as Lana’ika will._

As he always does, since he had left to try and find his own way, his emotions twist as he thinks of his rescuer, J’ohlana Wren. He sees her standing defiantly in an arena as she covers his escape.

“Hey, Cyn,” he manages. “What brings you to this shithole?”

“Oh, you know. I was looking for a handsome stud to hold and push the boojums away for him,” she says. “You know any?”

“Well, holding me is nice. Don’t know about the handsome part or the stud part.” He grows serious. “Is everything okay? Is Lana’ika okay?”

“She’s good. She asked me to come find you and see if you’d want to come back to the dojo. She also sent me with somebody that Kal says you might know.” She grins. “Somebody she needed to get out of her hair for a bit.”

She turns and steps out of his view. Gregor’s mind goes through a panoply of emotions in the space of three seconds as the man that he had known as Taliesin Croft steps into view. 

His general. His Jedi.

His eyes take in the changes. The fully gray hair—not normal on someone still a few years shy of fifteen, or whatever a slow-ager would be ( _thirty_?)—much shorter now, with only the familiar brindle color in the bit of hair on his chin and over his lip. The three scars on his forehead; scars that form a three-armed oddly-shaped star are new, as well. 

Croft stands there, no fear in any part of his being. One part of Gregor wonders who had told him that a Jedi had nothing to fear from him. 

He concentrates on Croft’s face, noting the things that hadn’t changed. The steady green eyes with their tiny flecks of gold. Eyes that could alternately look at him with warmth and laughter, as well as different temperatures and less laughter on rarer occasions.

Two years or so with this particular Jedi had keyed Gregor to Croft’s emotions. He sees only glimpses of pain and loss; suppressed of course. 

“Hello, Gregor,” Croft says. 

“General,” he replies simply, nodding. 

The crooked grin of his memory shows. “Not a General anymore. Taliesin Croft is dead,” Croft says.

“Pretty spry for a dead guy,” Gregor replies. An instant later he feels himself engulfed in a tight embrace. His forehead rests against the scars on Croft’s.

+=+=+=+=+=

**Mandalore**   
**Keldabe Agricultural Preservation Dome**

J’ohlana Wren leans up from her work on the fence and places her gloved hands on her lower back, pushing forward as she rises. She squints her eyes against the bright sun of the primary, filtered only slightly by the dome. As always, she is awed by the rugged beauty of the neat fields and forests—such a contrast to the rest of _Manda’yaim’s_ wasteland, as well as the cities under the other domes. 

Maeve, another instructor, grins at her as she hears the several loud cracks accompanying every slight move. “Getting old, Lana’ika?”

“Oh, shut up,” J’ohlana says with a grin. “I’m only a few months older than you, twit.”

“It ain’t the years, it’s the mileage,” Maeve snarks back. Her blue eyes twinkle as she looks J’ohlana up and down. “Interesting choice of outfit to build a fence in the back forty. You hunting?” she asks, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear.

J’ohlana feels her eyes narrow at her companion. She looks down at the halter-and-shorts combination. _Not exactly great for manual labor, J’oh_ , she thinks. She curses herself as she unwittingly uses _his_ diminutive for her name.

She hears Maeve giggle. “Looks like you wished for him and he appeared,” she says. J’ohlana starts, then raises her index finger at Maeve. She turns at where Maeve gestures with her eyes. 

Taliesin Croft walks up, that damnable easy grin on his face. It is the figure next to him that brings something other than thunder to her eyes. She feels laughter bubble up at the sight of Gregor. 

She drops her hammer and runs to him. One quick leap and she hugs him tightly to her. After a moment, she feels his arms circle her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Corellian smile softly at her, then nod. It raises him slightly higher in her estimation. She reaches up and kisses Gregor on his cheek. 

“I missed you, _vod_ ,” she whispers.

“Me too, girl,” he says. “You must be getting hard up for help,” he says, nodding at King, as he had become known—the name that both of them had felt he had earned.

“Yeah, I know. The _Kalbuir_ is still taking in strays.”

Gregor smiles. “You could do worse, love,” he says. 

She releases him and turns to the Corellian. She walks up to him and and pokes him in the chest. “What the hell are you gaping at, Gambler?” she asks. “Get your ass over there and start building that fence.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Looks like you’re doing just fine without me,” he says dryly.

“Are you shitting me? All of the instructors are building this damned thing because, one, you scared off all of the other students, and two, that old bastard Skirata sent you on some super-secret mission.”

“Not so secret, now,” he says, looking at Gregor. “Plus, I can’t help it that those other students let me kick their asses in sparring. Maybe they shouldn’t have listened to Tommis.”

She takes a step towards him. “You can leave my brother out of it, sport,” she says. “Storm-King my ass,” she says, her face growing hot. 

He stands there, the infuriating grin spreading across his face again. After a moment, he turns away and pulls his shirt off, moving towards the fence. 

She takes a deep breath, allowing herself to calm. For some reason, her heart continues to hammer. Her eyes soften as they always do, when they fall on the mass of scar tissue on his right shoulder. A reminder of an Imperial rotary blaster from the last day of the war. When she knew that his world had died—even if she didn’t know exactly how.

She turns away; sees Gregor grinning at her. “What?” she asks, tersely.

“Oh, nothing,” he says. “Just got that dewy-eyed look that some of my brothers did when they watched him spar with his shirt off.”

She rolls her own eyes. “Were you one of ‘em Gregor’ika?” she snarks. “Does he get you all dewy-eyed?”

He continues to grin. “Maybe. If I had any interest in any of that, he might be fun.” He grows serious. “Not a lot of room up here for those kind of thoughts,” he says, pointing to his head. 

J’ohlana feels her heart twist at his matter-of-fact words. She places her hands on either side of his face. She makes sure that no pity shows in her expression, as she pulls him close to her again. She places her lips against his ear. “I know, love. Plenty of good thoughts up there,” she says. 

She feels his smile against her cheek. “Got a job for you, J’ohlana,” he says. “It might help take your mind off of your demons.” 

J’ohlana rests her face against his chest. “Might help his, as well,” Gregor finishes. 

After several moments, he breaks away. He turns to walk over and help King. She touches him on his arm, something sticking in her mind at what he had said.

“Gregor, how do you know him?”

He looks at the fenceline. “I just knew him in the war, Lana’ika. It’s his story to tell, not mine. All I’ll say is that he took care of me and many of my brothers.”

She watches him curiously as he walks over to the fence. She hears their shared laughter.


	3. Two: Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories and names. Connections to the past and the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always to SL Walker for the excellent beta-read!

Gregor lifts his head from the deluge of water and sighs. He reaches over and turns the water off and smiles; Croft, or King, as he was now called, had made sure to leave him plenty of hot water. He pulls the curtain aside and takes the clean towel. After he finishes drying, he pulls up a pair of shorts and walks out into the sleeping area partitioned off from the rest of the barn. 

His eyes fall on King kneeling on his sleeping pad, a towel over his shoulder. Gregor sees sudden movement as his right hand moves up to the towel. Gregor grins in the dim light, his eyes widening at where King’s hand had moved from. The grin broadens as Gregor’s eyes fall on the sheepish look on his face. 

“I was hoping that you’d take a civilian shower, _vod_ ,” he says. 

“Why would I start now?” Gregor asks. “Too much time spent on ships where the captain was more concerned with how it looked, rather than the comfort of the troops. Well, not quite true of all. Jana Sloane always made sure we had what we needed. Even some of what we wanted,” he finishes. He sees Croft’s face fall. He walks over closer to his former General. “I know, Tal,” he says. “I heard about her.”

He feels them both falling into a leaden silence, so he manages to make his voice light. “I guess you were thinking of Lana’ika to get the blood flowing down there?” he asks, nodding at Croft’s middle.

Gregor closes his eyes, knowing that he will have to get used to the new name. He winces as he thinks of why the young ex-Jedi needs to use a false name.

Croft-- _King_ doesn’t say anything, merely flushes. Gregor touches his shoulder. “I have a feeling she might be doing the same thing in her rack. I saw how she was looking at your ass. It’s only a matter of time.”

He feels King draw his breath in deep. “Gregor, I’m sorry. I don’t want to mess anything up—”

Gregor holds his hand up. “No, King. It’s okay. I’m not too interested in any of that, these days.” He grins. “I think that I could do it, with either of you, but neither of you are really my type.”

King raises that almost-dangerous eyebrow from Gregor’s memory. “Oh, yeah? Just out of curiosity, what is your type?”

“Tall, dark, and identical,” Gregor says. Their laughter rises in the night. 

They fall silent. “I think you’re okay, King. You’re the one person here, I don’t have to worry about hurting her. I saw how you were with Jana, how the both of you cared for each other. Might not have been picking out furniture together, but you cared. That’s all I ask for Lana.”

After a moment, King nods. “I don’t even know if she likes me,” he says in a small voice. “I don’t know if I can, either.”

“Because of Jana?”

“Her. And another. One that I’m sure didn’t make it.”

Gregor moves his hand to King’s cheek, then touches his lips to the scars on the forehead. They both move their foreheads together. Gregor pushes away the moment, moves to lightness again in his voice. “You know, you can go ahead and take care of that,” he says, pointing at the part that seems to be sticking its head into the conversation. “It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

Croft looks at him. “Really? When?”

Gregor rolls his eyes. “My brothers and I. We grew up close together; all of us. Contrary to popular belief, the longnecks didn’t breed the sex drive out of us. Even after we deployed, in a berth or in a shower, there was no rank.” He smiles. “No shame, for most of us. We respected each other’s needs. We were kinda sure that no one else would. Guess we were wrong about that in a few cases,” he finishes, gesturing with his forehead towards King. 

King takes this in. “I didn’t know. I didn’t feel right about intruding. Plus, I was learning my leadership out of books and from just a few examples. It wasn’t right for me to take advantage of those under my command.” 

Gregor shakes his head. “Taliesin,” he says, reverting back to the old name, “you were one of us. We chose a name for you. You would’ve been welcome.” He grins again. “I know of a couple in the commandos who would’ve gladly taken care of this.”

He looks away. “I might be able to take care of it, seeing that the blood’s flowing elsewhere. But I don’t know. I mostly want touch—the comfort of being held. It helps with the fog after my head injuries. Lana knows this. We’ve seen each other like this,” gesturing over their bodies. “She respects my boundaries. She’s held me many a night when she knew it was rough.”

He sees King nod, then move to lift the covers up. “Come on, Gregor. I’ll hold you. It’s alright.” He looks away. “I’ve held a few others before, when I was a padawan. Besides, I owe you for not telling J’oh what I am.” 

He sees Gregor smirk. “What?” Croft asks. 

“Do you think you could put these on first?”

He catches the pair of sleep pants that Gregor tosses him. Their laughter flows easily again.

“As far as Lana goes, that’s your secret, King,” Gregor says, moving under the covers and into King’s embrace. “But it’s probably going to come up.”

He feels King shake his head against his shoulder. “I don’t know. The Force doesn’t seem to work right now for me.”

Gregor takes that in as he thinks of this Jedi’s losses. He feels King’s breathing against him, but knows he is not asleep. Only resting in the darkness of his mind. 

Gregor wonders if he can do anything to bring some light into the darkness. He is sure that both Tal and Lana’ika could bring each other light. He will do what he can for both of them. For now, this is all that he can do.

+=+=+=+=+=

J’ohlana Wren walks out into the Keldabe night. She sips the cup of de-caf in her hands. She wonders why she is so restless, why she had lain awake for the last few hours. 

Probably because her mind had focused on his bare back and chest through the night. Her eyes grow thunderous as she thinks of the smartassed Corellian at the fenceline. She steels herself, knowing that she might be overreacting to his snark and sarcasm a bit too strongly. She sets the empty cup down on one of the braces of the barn, then opens the door. Before she does, she concentrates on the sound of the easy laughter of Gregor and King as they worked together. Maeve had given voice to her own thoughts. “I think that he might be good for Gregor,” she had said, handing her a ladle of water. J’ohlana’s mind had immediately flashed back to the day he had walked into her forge. His eyes full of pain and loss—empty, until she had seen laughter there—a brief spark when responding to her digs. 

J’ohlana shakes her head, moving into the barn. Her eyes adjust to the low light, as well as a single lantern in the space. The combined light of the stars through the dome and the skylight, with the low-burning tallow, illuminates a peaceful scene before her. She takes a deep breath at the scene. 

Gregor holds King in his arms, one hand on his back, the other playing through King’s gray hair. Gregor’s lips move against the ears of the other, whispering soothing words. 

She hears a slight cry from the Storm-King, the _Buurenor-Alor_ in the language of this world and this sector. A name earned after easily defeating multiple opponents in a whirlwind of grace and power. Something that his calm, mild demeanor didn’t exhibit unless in that state. J’ohlana concentrates on the words coming from the his mouth.

“Ahsoka,” he cries. She sees Gregor’s eyes gleam with tears and pain as he starts to rock King.

In her mind’s eye, J’ohlana sees a holonews story from the last year of the war. A young Jedi on trial for her life, for treason and murder. The accompanying holo trips J’ohlana’s memories. One of the few memories that she doesn’t try to suppress from that time. A powerful young woman facing down J’ohlana’s comrades on a snowy, burning world. Facing them down with only a length of hollow pipe, without fear. 

As her memories always do, they continue in a torrent of darkness and blood. She sees a young native lying on the ground, her blood trickling from Vizla’s darksaber wound in her torso. Other images of her time as a Nite Owl, then later as a member of Death Watch—even one on her first mission with them to that snowy world known as Carlacc, flood through her mind. She hears her oldest sister’s dry voice—words that sound as a mantra when this torrent threatens to send her to her knees in pain. 

_Forgive yourself, Lana’ika. Only you can, if you’re to grow and heal._

She repeats those words in her mind, over and over again, until she is drained. Her heart softens as she sees King come awake, at the tender smile that Gregor gives him, before they both settle. 

She realizes that she might have another in her circle to help care for Gregor, when his pain and injuries overwhelm him. She runs her hand through her hair, then allows herself to concentrate on those other feelings that Kinghad started in her when his crooked smile had struck her to her core.

J’ohlana Wren— _J’oh_ , as he had taken to calling her, turns around and leaves the barn, heading to her bed and whatever comforts it might offer her.

+=+=+=+=+=

The Imperial officer, self-conscious in civilian clothes, walks into the bar and sits down. Rex eyes him in the mirror, his back to the door and the table. He shakes his head at the pasty complexion, the thick jowls and body. The bright orange hair seems to be the most outlandish feature on the buffoonish body, along with a false smile. Colonel-Supervisor Bin Essada, undermoff of the sector that includes Zygerria, looks around furtively. Rex makes sure that his own hood and the dim light of the bar covers his still too-common features.

The darkened buildings of the Ring of Kafrene, their spires and pathways connected to the other ravaged planetoid of the former mining colony is the perfect place for any shady deals, even in the so-called ‘order’ brought on by the Empire.

Rex sighs and sips his ale. His mood is as dark as the atmosphere. He closes his eyes for a moment as the darkness and the grief rises. He concentrates on the bright young face of Ahsoka Tano. He feels her arms around his armored form; armor that was not his familiar mix of Phase I and II, but Phase II pulled from the body of another trooper. A trooper that Rex had killed, as the trooper had tried to kill his commander— _no, his General_.

His eyes tear as he sees the sadness and grief in Ahsoka’s eyes as she plunges the hilts of her lightsabers into the mound of dirt, in front of the headstone. A headstone that bears his own name and number as well as the legend, ‘the killer of Ahsoka Tano, Jedi traitor.’

He can only hope that it was enough for both of them. He thinks of Ahsoka looking down at those two sabers. Sabers that she had fashioned under the tutelage of her masters, after selecting the crystals within. He had heard some of the story—as much as she could tell him—while resting against her back on any of a thousand trouble spots in the galaxy. Keeping watch together, both of them learning from the other.

He lifts his eyes as a figure walks up to Essada. The figure, who appears to be female, pulls her hood from her face. His eyes narrow as he sees the fox-like features of a Zygerrian. Features that bear some resemblance, as near as he can tell, to a female of her species from his past. 

Maj Scintel. Ruler of Zygerria. A woman killed by the Separatists for refusing to execute he, Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and that same young padawan, Ahsoka Tano. He looks down at his datapad, at the information provided by that unknown slicer. Very scant information. His eyes take in the pink, cropped hair and gray skin.

He adjusts his earpiece, the directional eavesdropper activating. He smiles as he sees a young woman looking around. A Twi’lek, her skin a rare medium purple, catches his raised finger. She looks at him with a hazel eye—the left one—the one not covered by an eyepatch. She walks over slowly and sits at his table. 

“Understand you might be looking to ship out as crew?” He notices her eye locking on his face and then his shoulders and arms. He sees a tiny bit of a pink tongue stick out of her lips, but only for an instant, as her expression turns all business. 

He returns her gaze, allowing his eyes to glance over her own arms in the tanktop. He glances down at his comm and hits ‘send’ on his message. He smiles at the pilot as she speaks.

“My name’s Secura. Captain Thyla Secura. You might just work out, bud.”

He ignores the confirmation chime on his comm. He doesn’t see the one Aurabesh world acknowledging the information.

_Fulcrum._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: The Imperial Colonel-Supervisor isn’t mine. Heis a throwback to 1978. Extra points if you can identify the early Legends media he came from. My description of him is a bit different, but this is early in his career.


	4. Three: For we have made an end of all things base.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter is really influenced by the related works, especially the first two scenes—the ‘graduation exercise’ and the first mission.

**Two months later**

Gregor watches J’ohlana Wren punch Croft in his chest. He smiles briefly as hears himself speak the name—his Jedi’s original name. A change in their lives had brought the name in the open, even to J’ohlana. Along with one that Gregor had never known—a birth name. His eyes fall on the mismatched trooper armor plates; the blue of the 501st on the chest plate and the green of another unit on the torso plate. He focuses on the green of the bottom armor. A green similar to Croft’s lightsaber blade—the original one.

One similar to the two now worn in dual, specially made holsters that hold and conceal the lightsabers. Two that Gregor had never seen before. He had not asked what had happened to Croft’s own saber. He had merely watched as Croft, no, Jame, had pulled them from his bag and had started to hang them on his belt. The design for the holster had been simple. He had given the holster to King at the simple Festival of Light celebration that the three of them had shared. The Festival had meant nothing to Gregor, but he had remembered a long ago watch on their old ship; a quiet conversation on some Corellian customs.

Gregor smiles. It might be time to give another gift, albeit a couple of months late, for King’s ‘graduation’. A graduation in which his mystical connection to the Force had suddenly reactivated.

Right in front of J’ohlana Wren, his instructor. His smile softens as he sees J’oh, as King calls her, rather than the more familiar Lana, stare balefully up at King. Gregor can tell that she is struggling to keep the fire in her expression. She fails. She touches King’s cheek, then pulls him down by his ear. She silences his yelp with her lips.

Their dynamic, noticeable to everyone except them—even to Gregor when he had returned to the dojo—had shifted to this comfortable affection and laughter. Gregor begrudges neither of them any of their comforts, even as they both made sure that he was cared for and held when the nightmares had overwhelmed him. He had made sure that he was convincing in his sleep, so that they could still take time to fall into each other, after his terrors had stilled.

Both of them spot him and paint wide smiles on their faces as he comes closer to them. He returns their expressions, but then grows serious.

“You heard from Rex,” J’ohlana says, her eyes falling. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. Two months in the making, but he’s got a lead for us.”

J’oh takes a deep breath, then shares a look with King. He nods. “What’s the word, Gregor’ika?” he asks.

“There are several brothers that Essada is having decommissioned. He’s made feelers to the Zygerrian, asking for price quotes.”

J’oh pulls closer to Croft, then takes Gregor’s hand. “We’re ready, love. Let’s get a plan together.”

“I’m waiting for more intel from Rex, as well as Fulcrum’s slicer.”

Jame’s eyes narrow. “Are we sure that we can trust this Fulcrum?” he asks, his voice dripping with skepticism.

After a moment, Gregor nods. “Yeah. Got some people I trust that vouch for them. Plus the slicer has helped me with other intel.”

Gregor watches the silent communication between J’oh and her lover. After a moment, Jame nods.

+=+=+=+=+=

 J’ohlana turns away as her two hardheads sleep. It had been a long couple of days; she is not sure whether or not they would be able to work as a team. She rolls her eyes. _Not that today had really given them too much hope,_ she thinks. She grins as she remembers Gregor trying to use his limited piloting skills to get them away from a screaming mob of slaves, who had mistaken King for a true Imperial commando. A group who had rebelled against their owners and slaughtered them, having freed themselves before the three of them had gotten there.

She feels a vibration in the pocket of her robe. She touches both Gregor and Jame’s foreheads. She knows that the inability to save the clones in that mob hurts them both; the fact that Jame was once a Jedi named Taliesin Croft had triggered an almost visceral reaction in those brothers.

J’oh moves out of the small sleeping area and climbs up into the cockpit of her surplus Republic shuttle. She sits down and activates the comm. A hooded figure appears above the projector. As always, J’oh stares at the distorted figure.

“Hello Fulcrum,” she says.

“You didn’t exactly set the world on fire, _vod_ ,” the figure says, ignoring the greeting. Even modulated, J’oh can hear the dry tones of the words.

“Well, you weren’t exactly breaking out with less than shitty intel, _darling_ ,” J’oh replies, her voice just as dry.

She hears a modulated sigh. “Point taken. We’ve since learned that this Imperial officer was a small fish in the bigger picture. I think that your leads may pan out.”

J’oh nods. “It’s why we sent out our own feelers. We’ve got a lot of baggage. Our asses are the ones hanging out here.”

Fulcrum remains silent. J’oh shakes her head, dispelling her anger. “Your codes were spot on. They got us in and out past the blockade.”

The contact nods. “I know what you’re risking, _vod_ ,” the figure says. “I’ve also got several people risking everything as well.”

“We’ll be in touch,” J’oh says.

As Fulcrum signs off, J’oh wonders about the odd, tall shape of the hologram’s head area, as well as the Mando word for ‘brother’ or ‘sister’ used liberally in Fulcrum’s words.

She returns to the sleeping area. A pair of green eyes gaze at her. She smiles at him, her eyes softening at the sight of Croft holding Gregor and rocking him gently. After several moments, he gently lays their brother down, then slides out of bed.

J’oh takes his hand and turns to walk out of the small side hatch. They listen to the wildlife teeming in the forest; they both raise their eyes to the bright starlight. J’oh pulls closer to him, moving her hand to his ass. Croft grins and turns to her, pulling her into his arms. She feels his warm hands on her back as he wraps them under her robe.

“He okay?” she whispers.

“Yeah. Not being able to rescue his brothers got to him.”

She smiles up at him, then stands on tiptoes and kisses him. “Against my better judgement, I think you’re a good man, whatever-the-hell-your-name-is-this minute.”

He gives his crooked grin. “You probably should go with your first instinct, Teach,” he says.

“Not too many men would hold him and rock him to sleep when the night gets to him.”

“He’d do the same for me. He has.” J’ohlana nods, remembering. She had felt Gregor’s arms around her with her own terrors.

She reaches up and pulls her robe off. “All this do-gooding kinda gets my motor running. You think you might want to get primeval?”

“I don’t know. Last time we went at it in the wild, I ended up getting chewed on by some bug that really was a connoisseur of Corellian ass.”

“I kinda know the feeling, at least with one. Well, we have done it in the same room—even the same bed— with Gregor before. He doesn’t seem to wake up.”

In the sleeping area, J’ohlana pulls him down on top of her. Croft gazes down at her before gently entering her. As they begin to move together, she happens to look over at Gregor, sleeping peacefully on the other bedroll.

She could swear that there is a slight smile on his face.

+=+=+=+=+=

Rex watches the Trandoshan shove a Rodian, cursing his clumsiness. The Rodian glares at his oversized companion, then turns back to the controls of the hoverpallet. The cargo container continues on its course through the streets of the tiny spaceport. Rex watches, then turns to follow the trail, jumping easily from flat roof to flat roof, making sure that he stays a comfortable distance behind.

As he continues to follow, he thinks about the symbol on the outside of the large container. A symbol that he had seen plenty of on a distant world. A world that had once been the center of an immense commercial empire.

An empire built entirely on suffering of many beings. The Zygerrians.

He sees a flash of stripes on white lekku on a street near the path taken by the cargo container. His heart twists as he dare to hope. Just as quickly, his hope falls as he sees yellow skin instead of burnt umber. The eyes that briefly lock on his are a much paler blue, almost pastel.

The unknown Togruta turns away; Rex notes with interest that those pale eyes lock briefly on the cargo container.

Not briefly enough.

His eyes narrow. A memory strikes—one just out of reach, but associated with that Zygerrian symbol. A symbol whose owners had nearly done for him and General Kenobi. A memory of a celebration of the people that they had freed. The people of Kiros. A Togruta colony of artisans.

He looks at the alley that the young woman had disappeared into. He sees the cargo container moving out of his vision. He makes his choice, turning to the right to follow the Trandoshan and the Rodian.

His eyes sharpen. Only the Rodian guides the container. He feels a sharp blade against his neck. He grits his teeth at the slight bit of pain. He curses his lack of focus.

“I told that useless Rodian that someone was very interested in us. Looks like I got us some extra money for another unit.”

“Maybe not, sweetie,” a dry, beautifully accented voice says. Rex feels certain parts of his body tighten at the musical voice. There is a burst of light and noise. He feels the knife fall from his neck. He turns around.

The Trandoshan lies on the wooden planks of the roof, a smoking hole in his head. He looks up at the similarly smoking blaster held in the purple hand of his Captain. He grins. Well, maybe his captain, after he finishes this job.

“I guess I owe you one, Thyla,” he says.

She smiles, then reaches over and touches his cheek. “Think you might have been paying me in advance every night since we met, handsome,” Thyla Secura replies. She holsters the blaster. “We don’t have to follow the container. I tagged it with a hyperspace tracker, Rex,” she finishes.

He nods, looking down at the dead Trandoshan.

“I know,” she says, “he didn’t seem like one to listen to reason. I wouldn’t have him take you as a slave, too,” she says matter-of-factly.

“How’d you get the tracker on the container?” he asks.

She zips up her top to somewhere slightly more north of her navel; she smiles softly at his averted eyes. “It’s amazing what you get when you flash your girls,” she says dryly. “Some people tend to forget your face.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says dryly.

She places her hand on his chest under his shirt. “Nope. Only for me, Rex.”

He pulls out a datapad and types a message into it. He is sure that the slicer will get the message to the next part of the operation. He touches Thyla’s arm, allowing his fingers to move down and twine with hers.

“My part’s finished. Guess I’m free to be your crew, Captain.”

She matches his laughter. Their lips meld as they turn to her ship.

Behind them a container holding a dozen familiar forms makes its way to a ship. A ship marked with two Aurabesh words.

_Scintel Enterprises._


	5. Four: We are returning by the road we came.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family meeting—decisions. The Empire is interested. Mandalorian foreplay.

J’ohlana watches as Jame and Gregor stare at a datapad together. She smiles softly at the easy camaraderie that both of them show as they digest the information provided by Fulcrum and their unknown slicer. She sighs and looks around at the inside of the old shuttle. She had never realized that Nu-classes were so spacious and big inside; nearly nineteen meters in length. _I guess that if you’re going to cram a couple of platoons of troopers in here, it would be a lot smaller looking._

She continues her scan of the interior, at the two sets of bunks now secured against the bulkhead. Both wider than normal, with privacy screens. Wide enough for two to sleep in comfortably, but could sleep three if Gregor needed the touch of another to get through the night. She grins sheepishly at the privacy screens. Even with the size and his own space, Gregor would still go up and sleep in the cockpit, to give them the most privacy. Grumbling all the way about _inconsiderate people who moan and scream, interrupting his sleep_. Her eyes sting at his true feelings, never begrudging she and Jame the precious time together. 

She takes a sip of her tepid caf, making a face at the taste of the instant ration-pack version. Her travels had introduced her to many different luxuries; a good cup of caf was the most enjoyable. Her eyes fall on Jame. She smiles at his look. She wonders how she had actually gotten to the point where she knows him by his rarely-used birthname, rather than appellations such as ‘gambler’, ‘King’, or, when his insolent grin had truly vexed her, ‘asshole’.

At this particular moment, he looks at her with only a slight version of that grin, his eyes meeting hers. She turns to Gregor, whose brow is furrowed in concentration. 

“It looks like, according to Rex, that Scintel Enterprises seems to at least be transporting our brothers,” Gregor says. “He says that was the family name of the old Queen. The one that the Seppie killed and blamed the Jedi for, to stir up the populace.”

Jame nods. “I’m not sure, based on what the slicer found, that whoever’s running this thing is an actual relative of the Queen. According to the reports I read from Kenobi and Skywalker, her prime minister became the Regent of Zygerria.”

“I can’t even find a name associated with the company,” J’oh says, joining the conversation. 

“I think it might be best since we have more intel on the Imperial that we move on him,” Jame says. “I think that Kal’s girlfriend might be the way to get introduced to whoever’s on the back end—the buyers, since she has that criminal link.”

“Agreed. But how do we get introduced to Essada? We can’t just walk up to an Imperial undermoff and say ‘hi’,” J’oh says.

“We do have an in,” Gregor says quietly. J’oh and Jame shift their gaze to him. He gestures at himself.

J’oh feels Jame tense next to her as realization hits both of them. “Oh, no, bud,” he says. “Not just ‘hell no’, but ‘fuck no’,” he says, his voice growing hard. “The Republic put you through enough, _vod_ ,” he continues. “I won’t have you playing slave for us to get in bed with an Imperial scumbag that’s a real slaver.”

J’oh places her hand on his arm, showing as much comfort as she can. She looks at Gregor. “Not an option that either of us are comfortable with, love,” she says. 

Gregor shakes his head, his own rare anger showing on his features. “What the hell? Do you think I wouldn’t play dress-up, even as a slave, if there was the slightest chance that it would save even one of my brothers?” He punches Jame in the chest. J’oh smirks for a moment as Jame reaches up to rub the impact area, then stops before his hand touches it. “You’re taking my part of this away from me. I’m not just going to sit by and play the part of the plucky sidekick and shitty getaway driver. I’m the one that came up with this idea in the first place.”

All three of them fall silent as they contemplate putting Gregor through another trauma. 

J’oh sees Jame stare at the datapad in desperation. Yet another version of the infuriating grin plays over his features. One accompanied by a raised eyebrow. He hands the datapad to J’oh. 

“I think that I might have a better way. All of the brothers that are listed here are all CT units. There’s not a CC among them.”

Gregor stares at him. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“Do you think that you could play a scumbag CC who might be wanting to get his own out of this, Commander?”

Gregor remains silent for several moments. J’oh sees his mouth quirk slightly upward on the left side. “I guess that I could use a Corellian as an example, General,” he says. 

J’ohlana sees Jame’s shoulders relax slightly. Only slightly as he rolls his eyes. “Hey!” he exclaims. “Why does everybody think that I’m a thug?”

+=+=+=+=+=

Colonel-Supervisor Bin Essada, next in line for an Imperial moffdom (as some would say he constantly reminds them; some who are no longer among the living) stares with satisfaction at the increasing numbers in his hidden accounts on Muun. He looks down at his uniform, at the tension where the gaberwool meets his belly. He wonders whether it might be time for another bodyshaping, now that he has a large amount of credits.

Credits earned without any physical labor on his part, only with flexing his newly won power over subordinate officers. Subordinate officers of a like mind. He starts as the admin droid signals for his attention. “An officer here to see you,” the droid intones.

“I’m busy,” Essada replies absently, still engrossed in his counting. 

“I think you’ll want to see me,” a modulated voice says. Essada stands up at the intrusion. He stops as he sees a figure in full Phase II commando armor. His eyes fall on the Marshal-Commander’s insignia on the chest. 

The figures next to the commando officer draws his attention more. He dismisses the one in the mismatched clone armor immediately, as clearly muscle, even though the muscle holds a DC-15S in an easy grip. 

The other figure has her own arm through the commando officer’s. Essada’s eyes widen as they meet the woman’s bright blue eyes appraising him. His eyes manage to move upwards from her chest and the revealing purple and gray gown to the blond, intricate crown of braids. Incongruously, his mind registers the slightly bent nose as his eyes track back down in appreciation of the stylish gown, with an effect at the hemline of lighter colored sea-foam. 

“My eyes are up here,” he hears the modulated voice say, as the Commander points at his faceplate. He reaches up and pulls his helmet off. Essada stares at the familiar face gazing back at him with amber eyes. Essada feels his guts turn to water as he wonders if he can make it to his panic button, resting across the room on the faux mantel. He tries to place the raven’s wing black hair and the scar that runs from the hairline down through the right eye, across the officer’s nose, all the way down his face and into his armor on the left side of his throat. 

Oddly, Essada remembers a story from his childhood, a story of those wronged coming back to exact vengeance in a slightly different form. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. His voice sounds confident, at least to his own ears. “I thought that I knew all of the Marshal-Commanders. I thought all of you had taken on Imperial Army or Navy ranks. I don’t know you, Commander—”

A smile flows over the clone’s face. “You can call me Commander Datary,” he says. “I don’t work for the fleet or the groundpounders. I work for ISB. Although I find myself seeming to be self-employed these days, to make ends meet.”

Essada raises an eyebrow at the chosen name—clearly an alias. Another name for a now-defunct system of money—the Republic credit. He relaxes a bit. “What makes you think that I might be interested in anything that you have to offer?”

The woman smiles, an expression more deadly than anything the clone might produce. She reaches down into the bodice of her dress and pulls out the flat disk of a holoprojector. Essada’s eyes follow the movement of her hand closely. “I think, based on what you’ve been communicating with other officers, you might be interested in what we have.” She activates the device. A clone, his eyes downcast with matted hair and beard flashes above the projector. The image is followed by others, with detailed descriptions of the Kamino-born troopers.

“Impressive,” Essada says. “But why would you be trying to sell your own brothers? Thought you clones had some code against that,” he finishes. 

The officer stares at him, then slowly smiles. “Can’t eat a code. I want to retire in relative comfort. There are forty soldiers there, all ARCS at least. Even have a few unregistered Alphas. I’d say about fifteen thousand each; you could easily mark them up to twenty to whoever you sold them to.”

Essada calculates for a moment. “Maybe. Or I could just take a flat broker’s fee off of the whole lot. Say five hundred thousand. I could easily get about a million for the lot.” He stops. “What makes you think I might trust you?” he asks. 

The woman answers for the officer. She disengages her arm and walks over to him. She places a hand on Essada’s chest. “You’re right not to. But we might have certain information that you might not want to come to light,” she says. “Something about dealing in slaves? I’m told that certain circles in the Imperial high command might have an objection to that.”

Essada blanches, thinking of a dark shadow that draws in all light in its presence. He steadies himself. “I think I can put you in contact. But if I can get a million, I want half.”

Datary stares at him. The other figure in the mismatched partial armor and rough spacer’s clothes, purposefully moves his blaster carbine in Essada’s direction. Essada continues to ignore him, forgetting the human’s features as soon as his eyes move off of them. The young woman reaches down and pulls a small blade from the high slit in her dress, begins to trim her fingernails with it.

Essada smiles disarmingly (or what he thinks might pass for it), then nods. “I’ll make some calls.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Cyn Eldar, a Mandalorian currently serving at least two or three masters at last count, eyes herself in the mirror in the receiving hall. She runs her fingers over her lower lip, where until about two days ago, two expensive jewels had rested. She resists the urge to touch the opposite side of her nose, where a third jewel had decorated her tan skin. She brings her hand down from her face. She know that her first instinct—to immediately go to her ship and reinstall the damned things—probably is just wishful thinking. Her dark eyes shift to the door behind her, waiting to hear any sound of it opening. 

She had sat here for the most of three days waiting on it to open, after presenting her credentials as a card-carrying scumbag of the Unwanteds. A collection of castoffs on her birthworld who may or may not have a problem dealing in slaves and spice—or at least exploring the idea of branching out. She smiles slightly, thinking that another of her current bosses, the Queen of Naboo, might object to it in principle, but not to the idea that this contact might lead to several lives saved. 

Cyn, the newly-installed Handmaiden known as Cyne’, smiles at her reflection in the mirror. The upswept hair, the business suit with its flowing skirt, mixed with a revealing top sent several different messages to whoever would listen to her proposal. She stifles a laugh as she wonders what message would’ve been sent if she’d worn her dark red _beskar’gam._ As it is, she is glad that the long coat of the business suit hides one of her vambraces, her principal means of attack and defense. 

Cyn sighs again, shifting her ass in the uncomfortable wooden chair. She stands up and walks to the open window, allowing the cool breeze of the mesa to play over her face. She stares out at the brezaks gliding on the air current with their riders looking out over their areas of responsibility. She can see the capital mesa in the distance. Her eyes darken as she looks down in the street; the chained figures being goaded through the narrow byway; the crack of an electrowhip punctuating their movements. She steels herself—forcing her body to stand still; to not open up with the explosive darts on her wrist. 

_Easy, Cyn_ , she thinks to herself. _You succeed in this infiltration, then you might save a lot more than just those two or three. You might actually be able to put a stop to at least this head of the grav-snake._

She wonders if she’ll be able to live with herself afterwards. She hears the door open behind her. She turns, the same shuffling step marking the return of the elderly Zygerrian majordomo. Her eyes widen as she sees a Zygerrian woman standing behind the old man. 

Cyn takes a deep breath. The woman’s golden eyes follow every millimeter of the move. She allows herself to return the look, taking in the exposed gray skin of the woman’s own brief top and skirt, as well as the short-cropped pink hair.

The woman’s eyes move down her body. Cyn calls on her recent advanced training with the Zeltrons; allows her jacket to fall open more. 

“Leave us,” the woman says in a soft voice marked with a Core accent, rather than the sharp and thick accent of the Zygerrians. Cyn realizes the words are directed at the lackey. 

The woman moves closer to Cyn, her ears twitching. She lifts her hand and places it on Cyn’s cheek. Cyn follows her Zeltron and Handmaiden training for the moment, rather than the Mandalorian edition. Which is to say, she leans into the touch and allows her tongue to play over the outside of her lips, invitingly, rather than thrusting her punch-knife up into the soft underside of the woman’s chin, to get her way.

“I understand that you have a proposal for me, my dear,” the Zygerrian says smoothly. At this close distance, Cyn realizes that the Zygerrian might even be younger than she is—late teens or early twenties-equivalent. She starts as the woman moves her thumb over Cyn’s lips. 

“You can call me MaDall. I think I’d like to hear your proposal in my chambers.”

Cyn takes the proffered hand and follows MaDall through the door. _Well, the punch-knife is still an option_ , she thinks.


	6. Five: Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead speak. A new direction for Gregor. Rex and his new job.

Ahsoka Tano clicks off her comm. A smile plays slightly over her lips, as she sets the comm on the lush green grass. She breathes in the fecund smell of the forest, looking out over the bright blue-green of the huge lake. The _Vode An_ group are preparing to make what might be their first successful endeavor. She wonders what Bail Organa would say if he knew that she was helping a group dedicated to such a limited strike against the Empire. Rescuing discarded clones and slaves, rather than building to disrupt the Empire’s communications and operations. 

She would say she was finding out what people needed and fulfilling those needs—as she had told Bail what her new job would be, several months ago. He would probably counter that the time was not right for such direct action. She closes her eyes, finding herself torn—somewhere in the middle. 

Ahsoka sighs ruefully. _Wouldn’t know. It’s been two months or so since I talked to him_. As they usually do, her recent memories cause her to squeeze her eyes closed as they cascade. She sees herself waking up on her ship on a backwater world, her memory lost for five days. She remembers sending the ‘submerge’ code, shoving herself deep undercover with no contact. 

A cave in Shili—one that had a strange Force resonance—flows into her mind next; of hiding her still-not-quite finished sabers behind a rock in the cave. She smiles as she sees the old akul mother sitting down at the entrance of the cave. Her meditations had not shown her any lingering darkness from those lost five days. She looks down at the collection of rescued sabers, lying in the grass. She smiles warmly as she thinks of the adventures that had started this part of her life; an adventure that had led her back into the sphere of Lassa Rhayme, a loving friend and Outer Rim pirate. She touches the gold Republic credit that rests between her breasts; the symbol of Lassa’s elected Quartermaster. She had reciprocated their trust by sending different jobs to keep them in credits.

Ahsoka lifts one of the four hilts, an overpowered example of a matched set. She sets it down, closing her eyes. She smiles again as another Force presence walks up to her. 

As she opens her eyes to rise and greet Maz Kanata, she looks down and shakes her head at her own attire. A white flowing robe, off of her shoulders and slightly opened, soaking up the mid-morning warmth of Takodana’s sun. 

Her eyebrow markings rise at the sight of the battered med-droid next to her. A red and gold stripe decorates the familiar droid’s torso. Fortunately, for the droid’s tenuous bedside manner, he doesn’t sport the other symbol of Lassa’s Blood Bone Order. A scarlet and gold skull bisected by the stripe.

“How the hell did you swallow your pride and let Lassa grace us with her presence?” she asks with a Smirk. 

“I didn’t,” Maz says. “That overrated twit just sent her med-droid to check on his handiwork with your wound, with one of her less-objectionable crew members.”

“You really need to get over whatever the hell it is with her,” Ahsoka observes acerbically. 

Maz rolls her eyes through the oversized goggles. “Don’t have a beef with her, except for the fact that I can see through her bullshit. I’ve known her a long time. I know what she comes from.” She points at Ahsoka’s side. “Come on. Off with the robe, sweet girl. Let the butcher-droid look at your boo-boo.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls, old woman,” Ahsoka replies. She shrugs the garment off. 

She senses another eyeroll. “Spare me the flirting, little girl,” the pirate-queen says. “It probably makes someone like that twit Rhayme open her legs in a heartbeat, but won’t work on me.”

Ahsoka feels Maz’s hand trace the scar on her right side, the only remnants of a knife wound that travels down her ribcage to mid-hip. Her hands are replaced by the droid’s probe. 

As the droid scans her, Ahsoka’s mind travels to thoughts of her lost—a flood starting with her master, Anakin Skywalker.

It ends with warm green eyes staring into hers from above her, a crooked grin crossing his features as their passions peaked. 

She reaches out in the Force, as always, seeking her lost. 

Behind her, Maz’s eyes soften as the searching waves of the Force flow over her.

+=+=+=+=+=

J’ohlana finally feels Gregor relax in her arms and slowly surrender to sleep. She continues to rock him, her hand moving gently over his shaven skull. Jame walks in and watches them tenderly. “Do you need me to spell you, J’oh?” he asks quietly. 

J’oh smiles warmly back at him, her dark eyes crinkling. “No, babe,” she says, “but thanks for asking, _ner jetti._ ” She whispers the last two words. _My Jedi_. She is treated to him looking down and to the left, a slight smile crooking the opposite side of his mouth. One of the many expressions that she could stare at for hours. That she would do her best to keep on his face.

She rolls her eyes at her thoughts. She gently lays Gregor on the bunk, then gets up. She reaches down and kisses his forehead gently. She walks over and allows Jame to take her in his arms. Even though he isn’t the tallest she’s ever known, his chin still fits neatly on top of her head. 

“I don’t know if we can ask him to play Marshal-Commander Datary again, Jame,” she says against his chest. “It took a lot out of him to do that. Lot of anger and darkness.” She feels his lips against her hair. 

“I know, sweetie,” he whispers. “We’ll have to find another way.”

His comm chimes with a text. He holds it up and opens the projector. His eyes widen at a holo of a Zygerrian woman, naked above a sheet piled around her hips, lying asleep in a comfortable bed. She starts to grin at his appraisal of the holo. “I’ve seen better,” she says, lifting up from his chest, then punching him for good measure.

She sees his expression grow thunderous. “Her name’s MaDall,” he says, spitting out every word. “She’s the brains behind Scintel Enterprises. Don’t know if she’s part of the royal family or not.”

J’oh pokes him in the chest. “What the hell’s the matter with you? One minute you’re trying to see if you can measure her chest by a holo; the next you’re pissed off.”

He looks back at the holo, then turns it off. “Cyn shouldn’t be trying to do a honey trap for her. It’s dangerous.”

J’oh shoves him away. “You asshole. She’s probably better at it than you are. She’s an adult, and extremely well-trained. She knows what the hell she’s doing.” She starts to punctuate every word with the poke of a very sharp index finger to his chest. “Besides, if you were in her shoes, you’d be trying every position under the moon and stars with that woman.”

“Not really into slavers,” he says. He looks down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

J’oh holds her angry look for another moment, then relents. “You’re an asshole, but at least you know when you’re being one. Plus, you’re my asshole.” She touches her lips to his, allowing her tongue to push into his mouth. She notices he is looking at Gregor, his eyes thoughtful. 

“We may be able to keep him from having to be on stage again,” he says. “We’ll see what we can do with a doctored holo. May be time for us to double cross Commander Datary with Essada.” His eyes grow dangerous. “Maybe with Cyn’s new _girlfiend._ ”

She matches his expression at the mispronunciation. “You know, you’re not just a pretty face.” She grins. “Far from it.”

Without a word, she yanks her top off. “So, how do mine compare?”

They almost make it outside before their laughter bubbles up.

+=+=+=+=+=

Thyla wakes slowly as she feels movement against her shoulder. She raises her head up and looks down at Rex. His head tosses from side to side, as he murmurs in his sleep. She focuses her single eye on him, reaching over with her left hand to touch his cheek, allowing him to relax against her palm. She feels tears sting her single eye at the word that she can just make out from his dream. They send her memories flowing back to her time on Lassa Rhayme’s crew, nearly two years ago. 

The word, a name, sends her memory to the face of a powerful young woman, still trying to find her way in the Outer Rim. A young ex-Jedi, fleeing her past; working on the _Opportunity’s_ hyperdrive. She reaches up and touches her dead eye. An injury suffered when trying to rescue another Jedi on Kamino. A Jedi who had discovered new feelings for Ahsoka Tano while she had sought her path on their ship. Feelings that had been reciprocated, just before she had fled the ship. Thyla marvels at the connections in a galaxy so large. 

Connections of love and pain. 

As always, thoughts of her lost eye brings another face into her mind. The face of her beloved twin, Thorin. Killed an instant before the engine housing of the skimmer had been hit by an energy bolt, sending a white-hot shard of metal into Thyla’s eye as she screamed her rage at Thorin’s death. 

She feels Rex relax against her. She pulls him tighter into her arms, feeling his breathing slow against her breasts. 

Her comm beeps. She tries to stifle the sound, but fails. Rex stirs, then opens his eyes—those beautiful honey-colored eyes. Thyla feels her heart twist at his look, the sleep evaporating as he smiles warmly up at her. He reaches up and runs a finger gently along her left lek, causing a shiver that cuts to her core. 

“You’re really evil, you know,” she manages to gasp out at the sensations. 

“It _is_ fortunate that I use my powers for good,” he says in that dry inflection of his. Her hand moves down over his muscular back, stopping in a specific spot over his left kidney—or at least where she thinks his kidney might be—she’s never sure of human anatomy. He makes a sound like a growl as her finger moves rhythmically over the spot. A spot found in the last few weeks of his ‘crewing’.

Her own giggling increases as he rolls over her, trapping her hands. He stops, staring into her eye, his own eyes free of pain, filled with only laughter, at least for the moment. 

“So what was the comm?” he asks. 

“Nothing much. Just the hyperspace tracker I placed on the cargo container. It’s active. I can link it to the navicomputer and find out where it’s been traveling.”

“What’s a legitimate ship’s captain doing with stuff that pirates and smugglers use?” he asks. 

“I’ll never tell,” she replies. His eyebrows raise, apparently without any further thoughts of piracy or other knavery. His breathing becomes uneven as her hand grasps and kneads. 

She slaps his ass, then flips him over, a look of surprise moving over his face. She gets up, then turns to move to the cockpit. She doesn’t bother with clothing. 

“What the hell?” he exclaims. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” He points at his middle. 

“It’ll keep, I’m sure,” she says. “Gotta go link to the navicomp.” She feels the devilish smile move to her lips. “It’ll take a good long time to do its magic. We’ll have some time to kill then.”

She feels his eyes on her as she moves out of the tiny cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to SLWalker for her beta work. It’s kept me somewhat sane and on track. Her works can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker
> 
> You still here?


	7. Six: And I am in the field where men must fight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dance like no one can see you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again, to SLWalker for the beta and insight.

Bin Essada breathes in the warm air of Zygerria as his Star Destroyer begins its descent to hover over the capital mesa. He thinks about the profit that he might be able to gain, if the renegade clone commander is able to come through with the full platoon of ARC commandos and unregistered Alphas. He wonders if he might be able to bribe his way to a governorship, rather than a mere planetary supervisor. 

Even if his current Moff, an ex-Republic admiral named Jano Secor, doesn’t seem disposed to advancing his career. A mere scientist rather than a warrior merits no extra attention from the Commenor native—one rumored to be a castoff from Mandalore.

Essada shakes his head, dispelling thoughts of his future. His eyes narrow as his comm sounds. He turns and walks back from the open porthole and pulls a small drawer from his closet. He picks up the unregistered comm and pushes the toggle. 

His erstwhile business partner, MaDall of Zygerria, stares coolly at him, her golden eyes sharp, but calm. 

“What have you got for me?” she asks. She looks off from the camera and smiles softly at someone out of range of the pickup.

“Forty ISB commandos. All untraceable, with a few Alphas thrown it. I’ll take thirty thousand for each of them.”

Her eyes harden. “A million and a quarter? I don’t think you’re as exclusive as you think, Bin,” she says dryly. “My prime minister wants trained soldiers, but he could pay for a small army of mercs for a little more than that.”

“Yes, but would they be trained— _no, bred_ commandos?”

“Well, he’s not exactly impressed with the six that you sold me. Even at fifteen thousand each.”

“Oh, please, my dear,” Essada scoffs. “I barely broke even on that little transaction.” He grins. “Of course, I’m thinking that you may not have even given them to him. You might be planning to sell them at least two more times.”

MaDall’s youthful, vulpine face grows dark. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, you scug,” she says, her Coruscant accent fading with her anger. “I’ll give you twenty thousand. They might be good for trainers, but they have a shorter shelf-life now.”

“Maybe not, my dear. These were among the last of the Kamino batches. The seller says that they weren’t even slated for decommissioning yet, even though the Empire is moving more towards volunteers and conscripts.”

MaDall laughs; looks offscreen again. “I’ve seen what the Imperial recruiters and press-gangs are coming up with. Even the so-called ‘elite’ stormtroopers coming on line.”

He says nothing, merely looks at his fingernails. He looks out of the porthole. “I’ve heard that your mesa is beautiful this time of year. I’m looking for a headquarters on the ground. I might look you up.” He smiles wolfishly at her. “It would be a shame if I moved a garrison here with me. You might not be able to cheat anyone else.”

She is quiet. Her eyes lock on the unknown person. She nods briefly. “I’ll think about it,” she says. 

“Think hard, MaDall,” he says. “It would be a shame for one so young and promising to fall so far and so fast.”

+=+=+=+=+=

MaDall closes the call on Essada’s puffy face. Idly, she notices that his orange comb-over has changed to some sort of topknot; with the orange part only at the top. She shakes the errant thought from her mind. Instead, she turns her gaze on the young woman seated at the small breakfast table. Her eyes play over the light tan skin, barely covered by the bedsheet, in lieu of a guest robe. The young woman— _Cyn, that’s her name_ , she thinks, returns her gaze steadily, as she sips at the light breakfast wine. MaDall raises her ears as Cyn prolongs the sipping, making sure that her throat moves in an exaggerated swallowing motion.

Cyn finally places the glass on the table, then takes her time wiping her lips with her napkin. MaDall walks over to her and places her hands on Cyn’s cheeks, drawing her head into her arms. She places her nose in the mass of fragrant dark hair. She feels Cyn’s brow furrow against the skin above MaDall’s robe. 

“What?” MaDall asks. Cyn takes a moment to respond.

“Sounds like your seller may want to play hardball,” Cyn replies. 

MaDall breathes out. “Yeah. I think I might be able to work him down some. I’m sure that he’s taking whoever’s selling them to him to the cleaning-droid.”

“Mmph,” Cyn says. 

MaDall reaches down and caresses the back of Cyn’s neck. “You have an idea?”

She feels the smile against her chest. “I might. My contacts on Mandalore might be looking for some prime soldiers for the short term. They might be looking to assert themselves against some of the established Houses and Clans—to try to increase their standing with the Empire.”

MaDall digests this. “Why short term?” she asks. 

“They may come into some prime warriors in a few years, especially as some of the exiles return after the Shadow Collective’s time, including some former Death Watch warriors.”

MaDall furrows her brow. She notices that Cyn’s lips have left her skin. She gently pushes on the back of Cyn’s head. After a moment, the tongue joins the lips in the dance. MaDall takes in a sharp breath at the sensations. “That might solve the rapid aging problem with the clones,” she manages. “How do the Unwanteds feel about the idea of slavery?” she asks. She reaches up and begins to run her fingers through Cyn’s hair. 

“I think that they may overcome their qualms about it, once they see the power that they can gain on _Manda’yaim_ ,” Cyn says, her tone as dry as the mesas to the south. “I also have heard that they may have connections with ol’ Binny’s boss, the Moff. He, in turn, has some influence with your prime minister.”

MaDall’s eyes narrow over Cyn’s head. Something, she thinks. She masks her thoughts by moving her hand over the bare skin of the Mando.

“Might be an option,” MaDall says evenly. 

Cyn stands up. “Maybe we can take whoever the highest bidder is,” she says. 

Later, as they lie in a morning tub, MaDall’s mind is only halfway on Cyn’s gentle movement on her skin. The rest of her mind is attempting to sort through all that she has heard.

+=+=+=+=+=

Essada turns as the admin droid shows his guests into his office on the planet’s surface. He had shifted his command staff to the capital mesa of Zygerria to reinforce his interest in MaDall’s affairs. His eyes narrow as he only sees the the clone’s girlfriend and the hired muscle enter the room. The woman wears a version of Mando armor that makes sure that it shows her attributes to the best advantage—not just the ones that a warrior would need. The thug stares at him from behind an old Republic Commando helmet. He folds his arms expectantly across his castoff armor. 

Essada smiles as he sees the young woman touch the thug’s arm through his brown canvas jacket. She turns her sharp gaze on him, a slight, welcoming smile on her lips under the broken nose. He feels his genitals twitch as the smile grows in warmth. 

He shakes his head, then brings a businesslike, neutral expression on his face. “Where is your commander, my dear?” he asks smoothly. “Not that I’m not charmed by your company, but the fact that a CC unit is backing my selling of your merchandise might be important.”

The young woman smiles. “I think that he might be making his own little deal, without any of us,” she replies. She pulls a holoprojector from her weapons belt. Essada’s eyes start at the movement—one very close to the holstered Mando blaster, opposite a small, deadly-looking curved blade. He forces himself to relax, especially with the hidden glower from the hired muscle. 

His eyes widen at the scene displayed. The clone commander, who had called himself Datary, lies asleep in bed. It is the figure next to him that causes Essada to curse under his breath. A young Zygerrian woman, her breasts bared to the camera, lies next to him, held in the crook of his arm. Essada grits his teeth, fighting his anger at the sight of his business partner, MaDall, in such an intimate embrace with a potential seller.

“How did you come across this?” he asks, spitting out each word. 

The young woman smiles, her blue eyes locked on his. “Never you mind, Colonel,” she says. “We have our ways. Suffice it to say that we—meaning my associate here and I—aren’t exactly involved in this new, _ah, arrangement_.” She glances at the impassive muscle, then at Essada. Again, certain parts of his body twitch as she allows the pink tip of her tongue to peek from her lips. “Although it might have been fun if he had, for the both of us.”

Essada tries to bring the blood flow back to his vocal chords. “So, you’re not involved in this? Is he trying to make a better deal?”

“Well, what do you think, Bin, ol’ buddy?” the muscle asks, a Corellian drawl marking his words. 

“So what deal are you willing to give for us?” the woman asks, shushing the muscle with a hand on his arm.

Essada does some quick calculations in his head. “I’ll pay a million for the whole lot.” He allows himself a quick thought for how he will get that amount of creds. His courting of the the Zygerrian prime minister separate of MaDall, might be advantageous in this case.

“How about a million-two?” she asks. “Plus the possibility of a whole battalion’s worth of merchandise.”

He stares at her. “I’m listening. How’re you going to pull that off, seeing that your contact seems to be in bed elsewhere?”

She grins. “He’s not the only fish in the sea. His second-in command seems to be a bit younger and more active. He’s also fleshborn, rather than cloned. When the clone is out of the way,” at this, she gives him a hooded look, “he’ll have temporary authority to transfer troops.”

Essada is silent for a moment. “I’ll think about it,” he says. He nods at the admin droid, who opens the door, signaling that the interview is at an end.

“Don’t think too hard. As I said. Lot of other fish in the sea.”

As they leave, he stews over the prospects, wondering if he can pull this off without winding up in front of an execution squad. Or being slaughtered in some painful Zygerrian method of vengeance.

+=+=+=+=+=

Cyn Eldar looks back at the bed in the warm Zygerrian night. MaDall lies splayed across the bed. Cyn rolls her eyes. _Of course she’s a bed hog_ , she thinks. She tightens the belt on the purloined robe, looking ruefully at the length of her legs sticking out from the bottom; she is much taller than the Zygerrian.

She makes sure that her datapad is working, then places the tiny, almost dainty Handmaiden blaster in the pocket of the robe. She doesn’t bother grabbing the the large bag with the heavily armed vambrace in it. A quick check of some comms and she’ll be back in the dubious comforts of MaDall’s arms. 

She moves into the computer room, placing her datapad next to the main terminal. A few punched buttons on the pad and it is linked to the mainframe. Her eyes narrow at the data that begins to play across the screen. The efficiently catalogued lives of dozens of beings, all being bought and sold like livestock. All of these names and identifiers seem to be from worlds other than human one. 

_As usual_ , she thinks. Based on her limited experience, the names appear to be Togruta or Twi’lek, with some Rodian and Zeltron thrown in. 

No descriptive, human-type nicknames or birth numbers in MaDall’s database. She begins to copy the database. As she waits for it to copy, she wonders idly what drives anyone to be a slaver. MaDall, at least on the outside, doesn’t appear to be anyone that would be interested in owning sentients and trafficking in them. She laughs easily and joyfully—is an attentive and even giving lover. Whenever Cyn watches her sleep, she gives the appearance of a sleeping child—which she is only a few years removed from being. 

Cyn grits her teeth and shakes her head. She knows that there is no ‘type’ for evil in this universe. She’s seen enough on her homeworld, as well as the galaxy at large, that anyone can do harm to their fellow living things. She doesn’t know MaDall’s heart. She suspects that environment and genetics might have something to do with her. 

Her datapad dings. She immediately sends the data to a particular comm code. A code owned by someone particularly interested in Togruta refugees from the war—a colony of artists on Kiros. She activates a particular app on her datapad. One that is secret and highly illegal. 

Six sets of numbers and letters break onto her screen. Her eyes widen as they fall on the location of the six. 

They are not located on Zygerria’s moons, as a certain hyperspace tracker had indicated.

The six are located on the capital mesa. She sends this to another comm code, as well as a direct version to who could make use of this information. As it sends, she hears a noise behind her. 

MaDall stands there, a sheet held up by her left arm. Cyn paints a smile on her face; a smile that freezes when she sees the thunderous expression on her lover’s face.

The right hand comes up from behind her body. There is an explosion of pain and bright light as the tip of the electrowhip strikes Cyn square in her forehead.

As she tumbles down a dark hole, she thinks that she might just be a shitty judge of character when a pretty face is involved.


	8. Seven: But in the gloom I see your laurell’d head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings both hard and soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to SLWalker for the beta, as well as letting me borrow one of her OCs of the Blackbirds. He can be found in another reality here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036421/chapters/24599502
> 
> I hope that I can do him justice.

The engineer searches through his gauzy brain for his own name. He looks around the cell with the tiny slits for windows, sees others like him either coming awake or trying, like him, to figure out what the hell his own name is. The first thing that manages to cut through the gauze is a collection of letters and numbers, a sequence that is jumbled at first.

 _13-CT-1177. No that’s not right_ , he thinks. He shakes his head, hearing another voice in his head, like his, but slightly different.

_I‘m a name—a person. Not just a birth-number._

He smiles in triumph to himself as the name crashes through the fuzziness.

_Castle._

He looks over at one of the others, the closest to him. The trooper shakes his own fuzz away, then moves over to Castle. His hands immediately go to Castle’s face. Castle instantly recognizes the brother’s specialty; his memory moves to another of that profession. One who had used the same competent tenderness when performing checks on any of his brothers.

“Lancet,” says the trooper quietly, as he finishes his examination. “127th. Charge Company.”

“Castle. 212th LRRP,” he replies. He looks around at the other four.

“They’re all medics and engineers,” Lancet says.

Castle nods. “I thought I was through with all of this when they were mustering me out,” he says. He squeezes his eyes shut against an intense pain in his head.

“You aren’t the only one, brother,” another clone says. “I was on Arduath, already out when some deckapes nabbed me. Said my discharge paperwork was out of compliance.”

A check of all of them had revealed similar stories. They had been grabbed by various fleet entities, all in a particular sector.

“What the hell is going on?” an engineer known as Bungee asks. “Why are we in this cell? This doesn’t look like a military lockup.” Castle takes that moment to look around their ‘home.’ The room is bare, with a dirt floor. His eyes widen at the pairs of chains hanging from the wall around the room. Something tells Castle that based on the number of chains, this room was meant to cram a lot more than six in here.

The door snaps open without warning. A tendril of raw energy slices into the room, touching one clone on his arm, yanking a scream from him. “Back! Back, you worthless scugs!” an accented voice screams.

They move back slowly, their eyes defiant. They stop short as a tall, but thin figure walks in. A young Togruta woman, her yellow skin marked by slashes; wounds that show through the threadbare tunic that she wears. She stares at them with pale blue eyes. She sets down the large bowl of something on the ground. Castle’s eyes fall on the collar on her neck. He feels his eyebrow raise at the quick wink and grin that she gives. She gives a brief scream as the collar is activated. She turns and moves out of the enclosure, the door closing behind her.

Castle walks up to the bowl. A gray substance, one that smells as bad as it looks, sits in the bowl. He looks at the other brothers, then scoops his hand into the mess, bringing it to his lips.

 _Yep_ , he thinks. _Tastes as bad as it looks and smells. Must be surplus Republic clone  
rations_. He spies a tiny bit of white sticking out of the corner of the bowl. He pulls it out, realizing it is a small bit of flimsi. He unrolls it as his brothers watch expectantly.

 _Take heart_ , he reads. _Someone is out there._

He moves over to the small slit of a window and looks out. He realizes that it looks out on the street of a small neighborhood. He feels his heart twist as his eyes fall on two figures. One, a woman from her shape, is clad in black _beskar’gam._

It is the other figure that causes his heart to beat more rapidly. A figure of medium height, but one dressed in mismatched bits of plastoid armor. Plastoid that they had once all worn, in different forms.

Castle’s eyes tear slightly as he remembers about a dozen sets of that armor. All in midnight-black—with hints of color mixed in. He remembers looking in the mirror at his own set. He stares at the figure. The figure slowly pulls his bucket off, showing a young fleshborn’s face with gray hair, rather than one of his brothers

Something buzzes at the back of his neck, just below his skull. Something like touching an electrical current. There is something familiar—only slightly familiar about the figure.

The unanswered question nags at him as the two armored figures turn and walk away.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dav Kolan, once a pilot in the service of the Galactic Republic, stares at his former commanding officer. He shakes his head as he thinks about what he owes the man sitting at a desk in front of him. His eyes move over to the mirror on the bulkhead of the old Venator-class, and he stares at the unfamiliar uniform; the white dress tunic of the Imperial Security Bureau. He stands braced at parade rest, just so he can’t move his hand up to the wicked scar that he knows decorates his skin just at the edge of his dark hair, a move that occurs about every five minutes whenever he is alone. He turns his gaze back to the newly-named Moff.

His eyebrows raise as he sees the concern in Jano Secor’s gray eyes. His first captain rises from behind the desk and moves around. Dav tries to keep his breathing even. Secor reaches up and moves his fingers at Dav’s hairline, touching the scar that lies concealed at the crown of his forehead. Dav exhales as Secor drops his hand. Memories of more passionate touches flit across his mind; he sends them away.

“So why are you here, Trigger?” Secor asks.

Dav keeps his face expressionless at the use of his old callsign. “Reports that Imperial officers are decommissioning clones before their time and selling them to the highest bidder. It might have something to do with the old Zygerrian slave empire.”

Even though Dav would rather be known as a pilot, he is a trained investigator. He sees Secor’s bland features remain still, but can detect an effort to keep them that way.

“Bin Essada. He’s the Colonel-Supervisor and undermoff for this sector. We’re just on the edge of Imperial space with Zygerria.” Secor’s expression grows hard. “He’s a scientist-type. Some kind of noted expert on weird radiations, or somesuch. I’ve only been the Governor of this sector for a few months. He predated me. I’ve been trying to shift him into a Governor’s position for the Circarpous sector. Pretty quiet; he can’t get into too much trouble there.” The expression grows into a wry smile. “He’s as useless as tits on a nerf-bull.”

Dav shares a grin, then grows serious. “Do you think he could be involved?”

Secor is silent for a moment. “He could be. He’s been hungry for promotion. Let’s ask him.”

He calls up his comm as Dav busies himself on his datapad.

A heavyset figure flashes onto the screen on the wall behind Secor. Secor turns. Essada looks aggrieved at the disturbance, but stifles the look as he sees who it is. He comes to some semblance of a respectful expression. “Governor,” he says unctuously, “to what do I owe this—”

“Stow it. Have you been dealing clones as slaves, Essada?” Secor asks bluntly. Dav shakes his head. _So much for subtlety_ , he thinks.

His eyes narrow as he sees sweat break out on Essada’s broad forehead. His chins shake slightly as he pales. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, Governor,” he says, a bit of the oil coming back into his tone.

Secor gestures at Dav, who steps up to the monitor. “Kolan, ISB. We’ve received reports of such dealings, particularly in this sector.” He gestures with the datapad. “Looks like you’ve come into some credits, Colonel,” he says.

Essada takes a deep breath. “I came into an inheritance,” he replies smoothly. “I might have some information on a Zygerrian dealing in some high priced merchandise. Woman named MaDall. She’s somehow related to the last Queen.”

For some reason, an old Lothal expression comes to mind for Dav. _Thrown in front of the shit-wagon._ He keeps his expression neutral for a moment, then hardens his dark eyes. He had been told by subordinates that his eyes could drill right into them. Usually these subordinates had been promoted to equal rank with him when they told him this.

“I’m with Governor Secor. I’ll be taking an ISB ship there within a few hours. It’ll take me a day or two to get there. I’d have my records open and ready when I get there, if I were you,” he says. He grins maliciously. “I do have the power to carry out any sanction for anyone I catch stealing the Emperor’s property.”

Essada blanches and starts to protest, but Secor cuts him off in mid-squawk. Secor turns back to Dav. “Are you sure it’s wise, telling him how long it’ll take?”

Dav gives a flat smile. “That’s why I’m leaving immediately and taking an ISB-only hyperspace lane.”

He hopes that Secor doesn’t notice that he doesn’t share his ETA with him, either.

As he moves to hangar deck, he tries to push memories of Secor from his mind. Instead, he remembers the touch of another, in the showers and cabins of a ship much like this. A fellow squadron commander. One with the face of millions, but one that had been unique to him.

He remember a young Togruta Jedi holding the owner of that face as he gasped out his last on the hangar deck of that Venator-class.

Dav Kolan burns with anger as he imagines that beloved face in chains. He is not sure that he can be objective.

Part of him also wonders what Secor’s part in this could be. He’d heard rumors from the days of the war. Of his mentor playing loose with the Hutts and other criminal elements.

His anger simmers, then calms as he once again wonders who he is working for, all in the name of order.

+=+=+=+=+=

J’ohlana watches as Jame plays with the remnants of his root-fries. She can tell that his mind is either light-years away, or concentrating on the problem of getting into the compound that their intel had told them was where the six troopers were being held. Along with nearly a hundred other slaves.

Slaves that she wasn’t so sure that they could help.

Once they had arrived on Zygerria, after their entry visas had been stamped, no one had accosted them. Apparently two-bit armored mercenary types were all over the place.

Their disguises probably wouldn’t help them get in to the compound, however. The compound bore the seal of the Regency—the former prime minister, Atai Molec, who had helped the Separatists depose and kill the Queen. The Queen whose family name marks the corporation that had apparently been shipping their clones from Essada to their buyer.

J’oh sighs and looks around the dingy greasy spoon that they had found themselves in. Apparently, the number of mercs from offworld had created a demand for other culture’s culinary masterpieces. Masterpieces that had included nerf-burgers that could be used as weapons and root-fries that could be ignited if an open flame moved over their oily surfaces. She smiles and reaches up to touch Jame’s cheek, her thumb wiping a tiny bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. She grins at his expression as she sticks the thumb in her mouth. He rolls his eyes, then moves his mouth to hers.

Her heart flutters briefly as his tongue moves into her mouth. She curses inwardly at the emotion. _Come on Lana’ika,_ she thinks. _You know you shouldn’t get emotionally involved with someone with what we’re doing. It’s a recipe for heartache._

Her eyes lock with his as they break free. She takes a deep breath as she realizes that the heartache is already present in his level gaze. She nods, then kisses him again.

“What is it, Jame?” she asks.

“Nothing, babe,” he replies. “I’m okay.”

She rolls her eyes and punches his chest. “Don’t bullshit me, bud,” she says. “I’ve seen you looking at the horizon. You’ve only talked about the wars and your losses a little bit.” She pulls his hand to her lips. “This whole thing with the brothers is bringing up memories, isn’t it?”

He is silent for a moment, then takes a sip of the watery beer. He grits his teeth, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a flask, unscrews the top and hands it to her. The whisky burns as it goes down. She coughs once, then hands it back. He takes a longer sip, then screws the top back on. He sets it down rather than returning it to his inside pocket.

“Who are your dead, Jame?” she whispers.

“There’s a few,” he answers. “Mostly my entire kind. A few in particular.” He looks down, contemplating the whisky flask. “Even some who weren’t Jedi or clones.”

“Tell me, love.”

He smiles, then lifts his hand to her cheek. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch. She is about to speak when a loud crack sounds in the restaurant. She curses as Jame shoves her to the dirty tile floor and lands on top of her. The curses die on her lips as she sees four tendrils of energy flashing over them, where they had both been sitting. Jame fights to unlimber his carbine, cursing with every move.

She feels him give up and seize her single WESTAR blaster from her hip. She stares at the concentration on his face as he snaps off shots at a number of Zygerrians—four to be exact, who are swinging their energy whips. She manages to shove him off of her, then grabs his carbine and snaps a shot in the face of a Zygerrian coming up behind him, with the weapon still connected to him by the assault harness. J’oh is conscious of the other patrons screaming and running for the nearest exits. More armed Zygerrians pour in, at least another half-dozen.

“Who did you piss off?” he asks her, snapping more shots off.

“What makes you think it’s me, asshole? You ain’t exactly easy to live with, bud.”

“What do you mean? I’m charming and—”

The rest is lost in a flurry of shots from behind their latest attackers. There is a sudden silence. They remain lying on the floor. J’oh is conscious of her body against his. She notices his eyes track to the door.

A tall young woman stands there, next to a taller, solidly built human male with dark hair and a receding hairline. J’ohlana sees Jame’s eyes take in the dark, hooded traveling robe of the young woman. She is about to remark on his attention, then she sees him bow his head to her. The male raises the smoking muzzle of a large rotary blaster, its barrels coming to a rest.

“My lady,” Jame says, rising. J’oh narrows her eyes, then allows them to soften as they fall on the woman’s face. She sees the steady gaze of the woman, then the puckered scar on the woman’s left cheek. She takes Jame’s proffered hand and rises as well.

“You’ve met Handmaidens before, haven’t you? Who? How long ago?” the woman asks in a soft voice.

“A young woman named Nola, or Nole’,” he says quietly. “I helped her rescue herself from the Seppies back in the war.” His lips quirk at his choice of words, as does the woman’s.

J’oh sees sadness move over the woman’s features for a fleeting moment, then sees the look mirrored on Jame’s face. He looks away.

“I know her. She was the last Queen’s Chief Handmaiden. Just as I am this one’s. I’m Storae’,” she says. “We have mutual problems. I think we can help each other solve them.”

J’ohlana barely listens to her as she sees the pain in Jame’s eyes return. It had returned at the tense of the description of the former Chief Handmaiden.

+=+=+=+=+=

Gregor sits in the cockpit of the _Beskad._ His eyes stare out at the landing field, as he waits for word. He closes them as a wave of fog moves over his thoughts. The fog can usually manifest whenever his emotions are in turmoil, when strong ones are present.

Strong emotions such as anger. He checks himself. He knows that J’ohlana and Jame both care about him, and for him, more than anyone else he has known in his short life. His heart softens the anger, in turn the fog lifts. Gregor smiles to himself, letting his mind play over the reasons why they asked him to stay with the ship and keep it ready for takeoff.

They knew that his own anger at seeing his brothers enslaved might impact the mission. That the anger and subsequent fog could’ve prevented what they were trying to do. He closes his eyes as he thinks of the two lovers—of how they care for him and for each other. As always, his mind moves to the nights when he would watch them sleep; when the need for touch and comfort had outweighed his desire for them to have privacy, so that they could fall into each other.

Gregor remembers staring at them, at the pure peace on each of their faces, punctuated only briefly with the pain and grief of their losses and their past. He feels his face grow hot; he remembers watching them through slitted eyes as their bodies strained against each other—with each other. He had seen their eyes locked as their passions rose. A smile quirks his mouth as he remembers how they had fought to keep their voices from rising as well. His eyes grow moist; the looks in their eyes at each other had almost made him want to reveal himself and gather them in his arms so that he could be a part of those pure emotions. He shakes his head. He is pretty sure that he is already a part of that joy.

He sees a figure walk up to the ship; a tall figure in a hooded cloak. His eyes widen as he sees the tall hood, the two protuberances rising from the top. His heart clinches at the sight of a Togruta—one that appears to be female. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, as if trying to clear the fog. A fog that includes memories of his past; of people that he had known. People who were most assuredly dead.

One in particular. A young Togruta Jedi who had impressed he and the other commandos with her skill—both as a young apprentice and at her even more developed skill at putting General Taliesin Croft in his place. Gregor knows that at some point as they had both grown, the dynamic had changed in the cauldron of the final months of the war. He had held Croft—Jame—as his sobs had broken through the night. Sobs punctuated by one word.

_Ahsoka._

He sees the figure raise her hands to the hood as he comes back to the present. His heart hammers in his chest. He closes his eyes as he sees the yellow-gold skin and the gray lekku stripes revealed, rather than the orange and blue combination of the memory. Her light blue eyes find him; she raises her palms in a greeting.

Two minutes later and he stands next to her.

“My name is Dala Ti. I think we can help each other.”

Gregor remains quiet, looking at her curiously. He realizes that she is a bit older than Ahsoka— _than Ahsoka would’ve been_ , he thinks.

Dala smiles and touches his arm gently. “I represent some people who are doing their best to free slaves in the Rim.” She looks down and whispers, “I was a slave of the Zygerrians for a brief time. Until three Jedi and their troopers—your brothers—freed us.”

He nods. “I heard about that. I have a friend who participated.”

She smiles. “Rex. I saw him a while back. It’s kind of how I figured out what he was doing, when I was tracking a lead on some slaves. Some of my people.”

She looks him straight in the eye. “I think we have a mutual acquaintance. A sometime-Mandalorian. She’s our source, as well as probably yours.”

Gregor wrinkles his brow in acknowledgement. “Cyn,” he says briefly.

The places where her eyebrows would’ve been rise. “I know her as Cyne’,” she says.

Gregor files that. “She seems to get around.”

“Yes. But we—our benefactor and I, have lost contact with her. It’s just me here. I’ve got some backup coming; they may already be here, but I can’t do anything right now.”

“How are you moving around so freely?” Gregor asks.

She smiles, giving Gregor a glimpse of her sharp incisors. That grin trips his heartstrings, as he remembers it on that young Jedi. “It’s amazing what you can do when you wear a collar that bears the Regent’s symbol,” she replies, reaching up and touching the instrument around her slender neck.

He feels his teeth clinch. She touches his arm again. He feels the cooler temperature of her fingers as she strokes his arm. “Don’t worry. It’s a fake. I can act like I’ve been shocked.” She looks down. “I’ve had a bit of experience.”

After a moment, Gregor nods, placing his hand over hers. “I think I can help you. I’ve got a couple of pets that can help us out.” He grins. “They’re housetrained, but can bite as well.”

The hope that he sees in her pastel blue eyes warms Gregor.

+=+=+=+=+=

A deluge is heard.

_No, felt._

Cyn Eldar—at least that’s what she thinks her name is today-- blinks twice at the bright light flashing in her eyes.

She manages to keep her eyes open, at least for longer than a blink. The bright lights stays constant as she does. She is able to shake her head, to try and shove some of the gauze stuffed there between her brain cells away. Her eyes fall on a familiar shape—the foxlike features and peaked ears.

At least a much larger version of the familiar shape. A heavy-featured Zygerrian male replaces the delicate version in her most recent memories, a delicate version staring at her with golden eyes as she comes undone with passion.

Cyn cries out as her head rocks to the side. A plate-sized palm is drawn back for another blow. A soft voice intrudes into Cyn’s hearing.

“Stop.”

A voice associated with that softer, passion-filled Zygerrian. One just as dangerous as the hulking behemoth in front of her, apparently.

Cyn opens her eyes again and looks down at herself, taking a mental inventory. As she does, the pain hits her from several places on her body besides the most recent example centered on her jaw.

Hanging from chains, not just a ray-shield, she thinks. Pain in wrists and shoulders, check. She notices that her bare feet are several centimeters above the dirty stone floor. She blinks again, concentrating on other aches and pains. At that moment, the dormant stabbing pain in her forehead, centered right above her nose, takes that opportunity reintroduce itself to her, with a vengeance. _Oh, yeah. The first one. The nerf-herder wannabe with the energy whip._

She breaks into a paroxysm of shivers as the wetness from the pail of water trails down her front. She realizes that she is clad in her underwear and a ripped shirt. _Every mouth-breather’s fantasy from the holo-pulps_ , flashes through her mind’s projector on the walls of her skull. She feels herself smirk at another errant thought. _Good thing I wore underwear today._

“Why?” comes the same soft voice. “Who do you work for?”

She manages to smile. The movement of her lips brings a sharp coppery taste to her tongue. “I told you. I work for the Unwanteds,” she manages. Her voice sounds raw, even to her ears.

Cyn lets herself fall silent. MaDall stares at her. If she didn’t think it nearly impossible, she thinks that MaDall stares at her with something like sadness.

MaDall shakes her head. “You seemed to have an answer for everything. Now the Regent’s office is involved. The ISB has made inquiries. Molec is looking for someone to hang for it. I’m trying to prevent it from being me.” She moves closer and lifts her hand to Cyn’s cheek. Against her will, Cyn feels her skin warm and the shivering recede just a tiny bit.

“I think that we’re going to have to liquidate those six units that you somehow managed to locate. Somebody was seen poking around near our market enclosures.” MaDall’s expression hardens. “People tell me that I’m soft, that I would never make it as a true Zygerrian merchant.

“I guess you’ll never know, beautiful,” she says in a whisper.

“You don’t have to be like the others, MaDall,” Cyn says. “I’ve seen you when you were vulnerable.”

MaDall nods. “I know. But I have to live up to a kinswoman’s legacy. One who was once a Queen of our people.”

Cyn looks at her. “From what I’ve heard of the story, she died because of her refusal to kill a Jedi.”

MaDall raises her eyebrows. “Exactly. Though it might have been lust, rather than compassion. Mine’ll be neither.” She turns to the behemoth and nods. “Terminate her. On the orders of the Regent.” Her expression hardens. “In the old way.”

She moves back close to Cyn. Cyn feels her lips caress her own, then MaDall’s tongue move into her mouth. She manages to keep her expression neutral as MaDall breaks away. “Slow strangulation by an energy whip isn’t a pleasant way to die. I’m sorry. But better you than me.” She turns and is gone.

The behemoth smiles at her. “I guess it’s just you and me,” he says in the nearly incomprehensible Zygerrian patois. He moves towards her, one hand pulling his whip from his belt, the other pulling the key to the chains holding her to the ceiling.

Cyn says nothing, merely shifts her tongue in her mouth to one of her back teeth. She manages to pop the object hidden in her tooth out, then bites down on it.

 _Guess you won’t get the pleasure, sport_ , she thinks. Her mouth begins to grow warm with a slight vibration from her jaw. She feels the vibration turn into a pulse.

She smiles and waits.


	9. Eight: And through your victory I shall win the light.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all come down to this.

Jame spots Gregor standing with an unfamiliar Togruta woman near the _Beskad_. Gregor’s eyebrows raise as his eyes fall on Jame and J’oh’s own new companions. The Naboo guard nods his head with a slight smile at Gregor. Jame rolls his eyes; Tega, or _Captain_ Tega as he had informed Jame and J’oh, gives Gregor a bit more of a respectful look than he had for Jame.

 _Great_ , Jame thinks, _as if I didn’t get that damned expression enough during the war, from other Jedi_. He shakes the thought away as he focuses on the task at hand. Gregor quickly dispels any thought of Jame taking himself too seriously, giving him a smirk at his expression; in response, Jame lifts his middle finger.

After quick introductions, surprisingly without codenames, the six of them get down to business.

“I think that we should hit the enclosure, and hit it hard,” Tega says. “It’s the only way.”

 _Okay, sport, why don’t you go the way of those other stiff-necked Jedi, at least in my mind_ , Jame thinks. He curses to himself as once again, he remembers where those Jedi currently are, in his mind, as well as in the universe. He exchanges glances with J’oh. “What about all of the guards focused there?” he asks, trying to keep the snark out of his tone. “It might be over real quick, Sergeant, if we do. I prefer the indirect approach.” He nods at Dala; she returns his look, understanding immediately what might be her role.

Tega opens his mouth, but Storae cuts him off before he can correct the slip in title. “I think I would like to hear what you might have to offer, Commander Gregor,” she says, placing her hand on Gregor’s arm.

Jame smirks at Tega’s expression, then sees Storae’ look at her comm. Dala takes this moment to speak. “What about Cyne’?” she asks. Jame raises his eyebrow at the name. J’oh gives no expression at the slightly different name. Jame stares at her; she meets his look challengingly.

“I may have something on that,” Storae’ says. “Just got a distress signal from her. One that’s unique to us.”

“You have a location?” Gregor asks.

“There’s another mesa to the north,” she replies, looking at a datapad that Tega hands her. “She’s there.”

“How do we know she’s there? We’ve already had an issue with a hyperspace tracker going awry,” Jame finishes.

“Because we just know, gunsel,” Tega replies acerbically. “That’s all you need to know.”

Jame stares at the Captain. “You might wanna rephrase that, Private,” he says, his voice rising slightly. He feels J’oh’s hand on his arm. Gregor continues to sport a broad smile on his face.

For her part, Storae gives a long-suffering sigh and a sharp look at the Captain. Tega doesn’t appear to notice. He looks at Gregor and says, “I’m glad that we have a real soldier here, Commander,” he says.

“We’ve got several,” Gregor replies. He turns and looks at Jame, his dark eyes gazing at him. Without another word, he salutes Jame smartly, as if on a Kamino drill-field. “Your orders, sir?” he asks.

Jame returns a salute for the first time since the war, his heart full with memories. His heart lightens when Tega looks away; Gregor completes the gesture by scratching his eyebrow, returning another ages-old military gesture when he uses his own middle finger in the movement.

Storae’ nods, then looks at Tega with a warning look. “I think that there’s enough skill to go around, enough to split up and get both. In answer to your question, the transmitter is part of her body. It’ll only work when she’s alive.”

Jame nods. “Okay—” he starts.

“I don’t think we should split up. Cyne’ knows that if she’s captured, her life can be forfeit,” Tega says.

Jame ignores him, except for a slight riposte. “Now that we have the rent-a-cop contingent heard from, I think that Gregor, J’oh, and I should take the enclosure,” he says.

“Well, if you can put it back in your pants,” J’oh says, “you can think more clearly. You and Storae’ can go get Cyn. I think the bigger force—me, Gregor, Dala, and Tega should get the brothers out, plus any of the others we can get out,” she adds at Dala’s look. “We can keep the measuring down to a minimum, if the two oh-great-warriors can be split up.”

Storae’ and Gregor giggle at Tega’s expression.

 _Probably my own, as well_ , Jame thinks ruefully. “That’s two size jokes in one breath, J’oh. What’s on your mind?”

She reaches over and kisses him quickly. “We’ll talk about my boredom a little later, bud,” she says. Jame sees Storae’ give a warm smile at the affection.

The reminder of the kiss is on his lips and his mind as he watches Gregor and J’oh walk away from him. _There goes my life_ , he thinks. He smiles. _Both of them._

He feels Storae’s hand on his shoulder. “They’ll be fine. Tega’s competent at what he does.” She lifts her hand to his cheek. “Come on, General. We’ve got a date.”

His eyes widen at the title. “I know who you are,” she continues. “Your secret’s safe with me. I know that you saw my reaction when you mentioned Nole’. I can’t say a lot, but she’s alive.” She looks down. “She was the only Handmaiden to survive our Queen’s murder at the hands of the Imperials awhile back.

“We’re good at keeping secrets,” is all that she says further.

Jame follows her, his mind troubled at the news that he hadn’t heard about Queen Apailana.

+=+=+=+=+=

Cyn watches as the behemoth Zygerrian moves towards her. The warmth of her distress beacon cuts through her senses, except for her vision—she can spot every blemish, every wrinkle on the approaching means of her death. Her tongue moves towards the tiny object on the other side of her mouth, opposite the beacon that had been installed as an extra tooth on the back of the right side. A tiny rubbery object inserted into her mouth during a kiss; a kiss from the woman who had ordered her slow, painful death.

She closes her eyes, focusing on what she knows of that type of object. An incongruous thought of her childhood flits through her mind, a memory of childish things. Childish things such as a spitting contest with her brothers; the laughter from the old man who had adopted her mother, as she bested them.

At least for accuracy, if not for distance.

She feels the large hands move to the sides of her face; a warm wave of fetid breath strikes her nostrils. “It’s a pity that I have to strangle you, scug,” she hears close to her ears. “I think you would be a prime candidate for ‘special processing’.” She manages not to cringe as he runs his tongue over her cheek. Her eyes snap open, her teeth coming down on the object. There is a half-second of a window when his mouth opens.

She sees that young girl, spitting against a wall to the laughter of several armored figures. The object flies into his mouth. He bellows and recoils. She hears the whining noise, increasing in pitch. She can only hope that his surprise will keep him from spitting it back out.

Cyn sees him start to vibrate as the heat from the object rises. She closes her eyes as she sees his face twist in terror. The pop of a small explosion, followed by a cutoff scream resonates in her ears. She waits another minute before opening her eyes.

The behemoth lies against the wall, smoke and a tiny bit of flame emitting from the crevice where the top of his skull had been located. She wastes no time, swinging her legs up to the ceiling and lifting her right hand in its manacle. Another twist of her body and the length of chain between her hands slips off of the hook. She manages to shove the vision of her body hanging from that same hook by the whip in the ex-behemoth’s hand out of mind. She slips to her knees, after her bare feet touch the ground, and tries to push the tears away, just like the vision of her death. She takes several shuddering breaths, then forces herself to her feet. She puts one foot in front of the other and moves over to the corpse, grabbing the deactivator pin for her shackles. After a second’s hesitation, she takes up the unfamiliar whip.

She gives only a moment’s glance to the dead Zygerrian. A moment’s glance because the floor shifts with a loud series of explosions. She shakes her head. “Don’t lose your head, bud,” she says. She fights the bile down as she gets a good look at the damage.

“You seem to cause a lot of people to lose their head,” comes a warm, dehydrated drawl from the door.

She stands up calmly, her hand unfurling her newly acquired weapon at the figure standing in mismatched clone armor. He slings his carbine and raises his hands to his helmet. The move reveals a human male’s face, but not one she would’ve expected. A warm, slightly crooked grin splits his features, matching the warmth and humor in his green eyes and his voice. She relaxes as a memory stirs—a description of a refugee from pain and grief that Kal Skirata, and later, J’ohlana Wren had shared with her.

“It’s a gift,” she replies with her own dryness. She looks him up and down. To his credit, he only glances once at her chest, before returning to her eyes. She allows herself a longer look. “You must be the stray whose ass seems to captivate Lana Wren,” she says.

“Might be,” he says. “I’d like to think I’ve got a few other positive qualities. My name’s King.” He holds his hand out. “I’m here to rescue you.”

“If the two of you can stop flirting long enough, I’d like to discuss my new Handmaiden’s propensity for moonlighting,” Storae’ says softly, her own voice as dry as this planet.

“Oh, hey boss,” Cyn says. “Funny thing, that.”

“Come on. Guess we don’t need to rescue your Mandalorian ass,” Storae’ says. She cocks her head as another explosion rumbles. “Goddammit, I told him to lay off the explosives.”

King grins again. “You just can’t get good help anymore.”

As they turn and leave, Cyn spares one more glance for the dead Zygerrian. Her mind is not on him. It is locked on the fact that MaDall had given her the explosive during their last kiss.

Had she given it to her to ease her death; to make it quicker, or to ease her escape?

As she comes into the bright sunlight, squinting for a moment to adjust her eyes, she ponders the question, as well as endless possibilities.

Above her, a shiny Naboo starship flares in to pick them up.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dala walks up to the gate guard, taking a deep breath. She makes sure that there is no hint of the fear that causes her heart to pound. As the guard looks at her with contempt, she goes to a particular memory—one that always stiffens her resolve. She remembers falling from the bay of another slave facility—falling to a certain death, the deck of a Republic cruiser rushing towards her. The sensation of someone following her, with a controlled jump. The feeling of arms that border on skinniness, but seize hold of her with incredible strength. She remembers her bare feet touching the metal deck; the arms holding her close for another second. The sensation of a brilliant smile under bright blue eyes; the shorter lekku of a Togruta in her mid-teens. A moment and she was gone, leaping back up to the shrinking bay to save more of her people.

Her heart squeezes with the thought of what had probably happened to the young Jedi, her fate that of thousands.

She comes back to the sharp tones of the guard. “What the hell do you want, scug?” the guard asks. Without a word, she moves her robe aside, exposing the collar with its door-opening signet. The guard’s eyes flash with fear, then looks at her two companions. His expression moves back to contempt at the clone standing there, his eyes downcast. A Mandalorian holds his bound arms in a loose grip.

“Another unit for the Regent’s enclosure,” Dala says, her voice firm.

Without a word, the Zygerrian turns and keys open the gate. She and her two companions follow the guard out of view. The guard turns and moves his gloved hand to Gregor’s face.

“Hmm,” he says. “This one looks a bit worse for wear.” He moves his hands down Gregor’s chest, continuing further. Dala feels J’ohlana stiffen with anger.

Gregor smiles, the slightly bent look in his eyes shining. “Got all my parts, bud. But there’s only a couple of people that I might let paw them. Only one of them’s in this room.”

The Zygerrian’s face twists with anger; he starts to speak while reaching for his weapon and his whip. He only gets the pistol clear of his holster before Gregor’s fist, now unbound, connects with his jaw. His free hand seizes the earpieces of his helmet.

The guard slips to the floor after a brief introduction of his face to Gregor’s knee. Gregor smiles warmly at Dala as he removes the remaining binder from his left wrist. Her eyes widen as she sees that the guard’s blaster is held in that left hand, having flipped into the air at the knee strike.

“Who?” she asks, remembering his words. She sees his raised eyebrow. “Who gets to paw your parts?”

“I’ll never tell,” he says, that infuriating grin that seems to be copied from another spreading across his bronze features.

J’ohlana punches his shoulder. “Gregor’ika, you’re such an incorrigible flirt. King’s not even in the room.”

Gregor looks at Dala. “Sorry, if I offended you, ma’am,” he says, blushing, as if remembering his manners.

Dala gives him a winning smile. “Is there an audition process for a third person?”

J’ohlana laughs from behind her helmet. “Thank you, dear. He’ll be blushing for hours.”

Gregor grows serious. “I think we need to find our brothers. Plus Dala’s people.”

J’ohlana is looking at a screen. “We’ve a slight problem. The other people—the Togruta, Twi’leks, and Zeltrons were bought from the Hutts.” Gregor nods tightly in response.

“How is that a problem, J’ohlana?” Dala asks.

Gregor answers for her. “Hutts implant explosive capsules in their slaves. Zygerrians rely on more control and the collars. We’ve got to make sure that we’ve got control before we get them out.”

“I’ll take care of that,” J’ohlana says. She opens a bag and hefts a round object. Dala can see that there are others in the bag.

Many others.

“We’ve got to figure out how we’re going to get all of the others out of here. We’ll be hard-pressed to get them all into the _Beskad_ and the Naboo ship.”

Dala grins. “Storae’ has that in hand. She’s contracted with someone you might know, Gregor. Someone who’s now a smuggler’s first mate.”

Gregor smiles briefly, then nods. “We have to go. We’ll get the Vode first,” he says. He looks at J’ohlana hefting the sphere. “Try not to overdo it with those, sweetie,” he says. “I’d like to get out of here kind of under the radar.”

“You know me, bud. Subtle is my middle name,” she replies.

“That’s why I said it,” he says. He brings his forehead to her helmet, then turns away.

Dala turns and follows him down the corridor. She sees him checking out door symbols, holding a datapad up to each one.

“How will you know which is which?” she asks.

“Some guesswork. The Zygies aren’t exactly subtle. They label these by the price per unit. Clones might be pricier.”

He stops at a door. He replaces the ‘pad with the guard’s blaster. He aims it at the door panel and blasts it.

The door flies open. Gregor ducks a swing from within.

The owner of the fist, a man with a face identical to her companion, pulls back. “About damned time,” he says dryly. “Castle. 212th.” He studies Gregor’s face. “You were with the 332nd, with Croft and Drop.”

“Yep,” Gregor replies. “I guess their reputation precedes them.”

He sees Castle shake his head. “I guess Croft was killed in Order 66,” he says. Dala can hear the regret in his voice.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that, _vod_ ,” Gregor says. “He’s like a goddamned bad credit, turning up when you don’t need him.” He touches Castle’s shoulder, moving to the slave collar. “I need you to trust me,” he continues, as he works at the mechanism. He includes the other five in his gaze. “I need you to resist any urges that you might still have to slaughter Jedi until I can get you to a med-droid.”

Castle stares at him. “We’ve got some medics here. What do you mean?”

A distant explosion rocks the room, followed by another. Gregor rolls his eyes. “No time.” He touches the scar on his forehead. “Let’s just say that you weren’t exactly yourselves.”

There is a slight murmur from the other clones. Castle nods after a moment. “Alright. You got my attention.” He turns to the others. “I know the 332nd. They were good troops, led by a decent Jedi, at least before the order came down. Let’s trust him. If any of you don’t think you can, we’ll figure some way to let you sleep through this.”

The others look at one another, then at Castle and Gregor. As if one, they nod. “We’re good, for now,” says another clone.

Dala feels a wave of gratitude for Gregor. The rest of the clones are soon without collars. “What did the long-necks tells us our purposes for existing were, brothers?” Gregor asks them.

“Defend the Republic. Protect the innocent,” Bungee says. “They left out the part about the Republic defending us.”

“I know, _ner vod_. I think I’m going to need you to trust Dala and me for one more thing. There are about a hundred civilians—civilians who have been through a lot; been through something just as bad or worse as what you’ve gone through with these slavers. I need you to take charge of them. To protect them.” Dala sees him gather himself. “To do what we were bred to do, one last time.”

The five clones gaze at him without a word. They look at one another again, then nod. “I always liked that part about protecting the innocent, in spite of what the Republic did,” says Lancet.

Gregor’s face is set with purpose, but Dala can see the emotion in his eyes as they move out.

More explosions can be heard, getting closer to them. Gregor shakes his head. “So much for subtlety,” he observes.

A helmeted figure slides around the corner before skittering to a stop. She stares at them, then nods. “We gotta run. We’ve worn out our welcome.” She gestures to someone behind them.

Dala feels tears well in her eyes as she sees the dozens of figures, in a variety of bright colors of skin and clothing, moving slowly. The tears spill freely as she sees the six troopers gathering up weapons then quickly organizing the ex-slaves into smaller groups. The picture forms in her mind of the armored clones efficiently, but tenderly, helping the people of Kiros during her own rescue. Castle kneels down and takes a small Zeltron child up, flipping her to his shoulders amid her laughter. He grabs a tiny Twi’lek in the arm opposite his weapon. Both children hug him tightly. Soon the other five are soon similarly festooned with small ones as they lead their groups out.

“What about the bombs?” Gregor asks.

J’ohlana pulls her helmet off, then grins. “Some of the extra booms on their mainframe. Plus our slicer was able to get in and disarm them en masse.”

More explosions seem to rock the building to its very foundation. Loose permacrete starts to dot their clothing. “Come on,” J’ohlana says. “I did overdo it.” She looks down at her comm, at three blinking lights. “Our rides are here.”

A few minutes later, Dala is staring at three different ships, one more than they had come with. The largest, an unfamiliar Corellian freighter, moves in quickly, the ramp lowering. A figure like those seven behind her stands in the ramp, a blaster rifle in his hand. She smiles at the blonde, close-cropped hair that she had seen on an unknown world. Almost a lifetime ago.

The other two ships rotate, their weapons sparking at anyone that seems to threaten them.

Masses of ex-slaves pour into the sunlight.

Free.

+=+=+=+=+=

MaDall feels the shudder of the old slaver ship as it leaves her homeworld’s atmosphere. She activates the screen in her small cabin, watching her exile begin. The Regent had issued a death warrant for her, after realizing that she had sold him the six troopers at least twice. She curses as she thinks of who had probably let slip that bit of information. An ex-Imperial Colonel-Supervisor, now the Governor of a quiet, not-very-lucrative fiefdom in the Circarpous sector. The ‘reward’ for keeping his mouth shut about other Imperial officers involved in feathering their own nests.

Not least of which was the Governor now responsible for relations with the Zygerrians. A relationship he had apparently cultivated during his command of the sector fleet around them during the Clone War. She sighs as she calls up the old datafile from her family. Jano Secor. She remembers the name.

An Imperial moff whose hands were not clean of dealing in clones, even in the past.

Her mind moves back to the young woman that she had left hanging in chains, about to die a horribly slow death. She can only hope that she was able to give the young woman an out—one way or another. For about the millionth time, her conscience pricks at her heart, raising doubts in her mind as to her course. The more practical part of her hopes that the young woman had survived. She will need allies if she is to rebuild her life. Especially since she had discovered that about half of her small nest egg had disappeared. Hacked by someone just before she had discovered Cyn’s treachery.

Her comm, the newest one she had managed to take with her, along with her precious supply of scandocs and identities, chimes, demanding intention. Her eyes widen as she realizes that no one should have this code yet.

She takes a deep breath, then pushes a button, answering, but masking her holo function.

A human’s male’s face pops up. Dark eyes stare into empty space, a smile quirking his handsome features under a thick mustache. Her eyes fall on the nasty scar just below his hairline. “It doesn’t matter, my dear,” he says in a sharp Core accent. “I know what you look like from your ISB file.”

Her blood turns to ice at his words. She looks further down from his face, at the half-armor and gray-green uniform of a working ISB field agent.

“My name’s Kolan. ISB-010. You’ve had a hell of a day, haven’t you, darling?”

MaDall manages to find her voice. “What do you mean?” she asks, as nonchalantly as possible.

“Somebody broke in and stole all of your slaves that were being held in the Regent’s pen.” His eyes harden even more, if possible. “Including property of the Empire,” he says. “Lots of explosions and chaos. I’ll probably have to start looking for the insurgents that did this. It’s against Order and all that.” He almost looks resigned, but then stares back at her with determination.

“I don’t really care if you want to be a slaving scumbag. It seems to be your birthright.” He looks away, as if gathering himself. “But I do care about those clones. A number of them saved my life. I lived and loved among them for over three years. They deserve better. So when you set up your little operation, you’ll steer clear of them. Otherwise, I will find you and put a blaster bolt between those pretty gold eyes of yours. Or I’ll let the Regent strangle you on one of your own whips.”

She says nothing. “As a matter of fact, once you get settled, maybe we’ll have a longer talk.” He punches a button. Coordinates appear on her holo. “This might be a good place for you to set up shop. Place called Oon. It’s not bad. I’m sure that someone of your talents can build something. Especially if you drop some information from time to time on any hints of trading in clones. I can’t stop the rest of your filthy business, but I can make a dent in that.”

“I don’t know why you’re trying,” she says, a hint of defiance in her voice. “Your own moffs and other officers are involved.”

“Maybe so,” he replies after a moment. “But it’s a start.”

As she stares where his holo had been, she wonders who else she could turn to. She thinks of Cyn’s dark eyes on hers. MaDall calls up information on the distant world whose name that Kolan had given her. After a moment, she sits back and thinks of his words.

_It’s a start._

+=+=+=+=+=

Gregor laughs at Castle, at his expression as he takes a sip of Croft’s whisky. Castle has managed to keep from coughing; the green has moved from his face, replaced by a pensive expression. After a moment he nods and hands back the flask, the flask purloined from Croft’s jacket.

He and Gregor both turn and look at their handiwork. The shiny, expensive cafmaker is secured against the bulkhead, a small table with associated makings now placed under the mounted device. Gregor’s smile softens; he had seen J’oh making sidelong glances at an example in the Imperial scumbag’s office. She had tried not to show it, but she had savored the cups served from the maker, a price demanded from Essada by Croft before they had left that first meeting; knowing his lover and her tastes.

He smiles as he thinks of Dala asking him if there was anything she could give them, for helping her people and the others. A warm smile had moved over her golden features at his shy request. He closes his eyes, focusing on the feel of her lips on his as a Togruta and a Zeltron carry the almost-new device into the ship. She had laughed at his expression. “The Hutt’s minions probably don’t need it as much as you do,” she’d said. “Had to let everybody on Nal Hutta know that we’re not easy pickings.”

He remembers the touch of her lips on his; a brief feel of her rougher-textured tongue in his mouth before she had turned and left him standing dumbfounded. He had put the fact that his trousers had tightened to what Croft had told him about Zeltrons—including one who had helped with a couple of missions. The Zeltron who had carried one-half of the caf machine had stood there watching, a warm smile on his face as Dala had kissed him, then held his face in her hands.

 _Yeah. That was it. The Zeltron’s hoodoo_. He wondered if he would ever see Dala again, in this world that they had chosen. He shakes his head and turns back to Castle.

Gregor focuses on Castle’s face as his brother looks around at the crew and cargo bay of the _Beskad_. Castle smiles after a moment. Gregor had seen that look on other engineers’ faces with this same expression during the war, even when the shit was flying heavy all around them. An expression of one calculating angles and distance, all in their noggins. When they were at their best.

“What do you think?” Gregor asks. Castle finishes his calculations before he answers. “I think I can do it, Commander,” he replies. “You find the supplies, and I can turn this bucket into a home.”

Gregor smiles his gratitude. “Thanks. I won’t be surprised if there won’t be a biter around here soon.”

Castle nods. “I can put a lifepod in here, as well. Won’t even look any different than any other compartment.”

Gregor looks away and smiles. “Good. I think they’ll need some privacy and security.”

“What about you, Gregor? What do you need?” Castle asks.

“Just what I have, brother,” he says without hesitation. He shifts the subject away from himself. “What will you do, Castle?”

“Don’t know. J’ohlana gave me a little money; gave us all some. I’ll get this thing out of my head, as soon as you and Croft figure it out. Hopefully that will keep the urge to kill him at bay.”

“It’s a standard reaction from anyone that knows him,” says a sharp voice from the ramp. They both turn and see the larger-than-normal trooper standing there, a small girl sitting on his shoulders, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck. As always, since he had met Drop’s ‘reason’ for not actively joining them on their quest, he draws a deep breath at the resemblance of the little girl to Drop, as well as another that Gregor had known.

The reason for not revealing that he was alive to the person who probably meant more to Drop than any fleshborn, outside of that young girl’s—a clone herself—missing mother.

“I’ve got some news on a place to do that surgery. Our slicer has found the perfect place for that med-droid to set up shop. An old RMSU that was decommissioned well before the end of the war. Seems to be off of any inventory—Republic or Imperial. The nerd and some little nerd friend have purged it even further.”

Gregor smiles at Drop’s characterization. Like everything in their lives now, the slicer’s identity, as well as his ‘nerd friend’ was compartmentalized—even from each other. Drop had hinted that the slicer was closer to their ex-Jedi than most. His smile fades as he thinks of how much knowing that people in his circle were alive and helping them, would help Croft heal from his true losses.

Gregor knows that he may one day pay for his silence and this damned security.

He comes back to the present as Drop turns to Castle. “I know you told us that you were going to go off on your own, Castle. I respect that. But we could use some of your expertise to set it up, before you go.”

Castle remains quiet. Gregor wonders if he is calculating the angles and coordinates again, before he makes his decision.

“I can give you a few weeks, Drop, to get things set up. Beyond that, I need to get away from any type of organization,” Castle says, finally.

Drop smiles then nods. “I understand. The medics and other engineers are going to help; the medics’ll get their surgery first.”

Gregor sees the emotions play over Castle’s face. Gregor touches Castle’s face. “No, Castle. No guilt. You do what you have to do. That’s what being free means.”

As he walks away from the Beskad, he sees a small tri-winged gunship rise into the muggy day. A little girl, with one dark blue and one amber eye sits at the controls. She gives him a brilliant smile, and waves.

Gregor hears J’ohlana’s and Croft’s voices, slightly raised in snark at one another.

He smiles as he thinks of their various definitions of that one word.

_Freedom._

For him, it means the freedom to love his new family.

+=+=+=+=+=

J’oh stares at Croft. At that moment, she realizes that she only seems to think of him by his Jedi name when she’s pissed at him. Truly pissed enough not to call him anything with any hint of affection, such as ‘asshole’.

She feels herself relent; her anger calms. She turns back to the Nemoidian running the carnival shooting gallery. Her eyes narrow as she looks at the once-fine silk robes on his scrawny body. _Hard times_ , she thinks.

Her brief surge of sympathy fades when she thinks of her two complete misses with the air-projectile thrower. The miniature battledroids stand on the racks, insolent in their safety. _I never miss._

“I’m sure the third time’s the charm, my lady,” the proprietor says, the slither-oil dripping from his voice.

“You know, I’m not exactly feeling safe around you, J’oh,” Croft says, that infuriating grin on his face. She calms herself.

“You think you could do any better, bud?” she says, her own voice dripping with ire.

“This display of foreplay is all so interesting, but could we please have a few minutes for an adult conversation? Or at least adult-like?” Cyn Eldar asks.

J’oh turns to the Mandalorian. She softens a tiny bit at the fading whip-point scar just above the snark-filled brown eyes. The softening goes away immediately. “I’m just getting him going for you, darling,” she says, “‘cause it’ll be a cold day in one of his Corellian hells before he gets to visit the promised land between my thighs again with all of that shit I’ve been hearing about my shooting.”

Cyn smiles, then looks at Croft. “As much as I’d like to see if he might hold my interest for a bit, I’m kinda swearing off all that for a bit. Last time the afterplay was a bit painful,” she finishes, pointing to her forehead.

J’oh turns to the Neimoidian. “I’ll be back in a minute. Doesn’t look like you’ll be taking any other customer’s money right now.”

They walk over to a quiet alcove. A street carnival on Nal Hutta on a weekday is not exactly crowded; they’re able to talk quietly and hear each other.

“My sources tell me that the Empire may be cracking down a bit on selling the troopers, but not too hard, because of the relative ranks of the people doing it. The rumor-lanes seem to suggest that there might be a moff involved. One who might’ve been involved in it even before the Republic fell.”

“Under the noses of the Jedi?” Jame asks, his eyes unreadable. In spite of herself, J’oh reaches over and takes his hand, allowing her thumb to move over his palm. Her anger has calmed a bit, apparently, since her mind seems to refer to him by his birthname.

“Apparently,” Cyn says. “I think they might’ve been a bit busy at the time.” She reaches over and touches J’oh’s hand. Her eyes are filled with sympathy, even though J’oh is pretty sure she doesn’t know his secret. Cyn turns her attention back to both of them. “We managed to grab a good amount of credits from MaDall’s slush fund. I’ve got a million and a half in an account on Muunilinst that y’all can draw on for expenses and what not. You’re all pretty good at scrounging things, so that should go pretty far.”

“Are we still in business?” Jame asks. He pulls the small bottle of whisky and offers it to both of them. When they had all taken a sip, he looks at Cyn. “It sounds like even though the Empire has cracked down, the _themiar_ have probably just gone back to their scurry-holes.” J’oh sees Cyn’s eyes widen at the Togruta word.

“Yeah. I think you are. Plus I think Dala’s little band of misfits could probably benefit from a ‘pointy end of the _beskad’_. They’re more thinkers than fighters.”

J’oh sees the devilish version of the grin move to Jame—no Croft’s features an instant before he opens his mouth. “We may not be too sharp with J’oh’s lack of being able to hit the broad side of the barn, even when she’s in it.”

“Well, your sword probably ain’t going to be too pointy, Gambler, seeing how you’ll be the only one polishing and sharpening it for awhile,” she ripostes, almost automatically. “Unless you can talk Gregor into it.”

“He hasn’t ruled it out,” he replies without a change in expression. “He’s probably better at it than you are.”

J’oh stands, then turns back to the shooting gallery. She looks behind her. “Come on, butt-head. Prepare to eat those words.”

The Nemoidan starts to says something, but quiets at her expression. She picks up the rifle and stares at the target, for only a second. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jame lift his hand slightly. She fires, rapidly in succession.

The proprietor stares at her in shock as all ten battledroids now rest on ground, their clay bodies broken. He starts to protest, but again falls silent, this time at Jame’s look. He picks up her prize and throws it at her. She is gratified to hear his yelp as she returns the rifle to him, striking him in the center of his forehead with the toss.

J’oh smiles as Gregor walks up to them, holding a cloth-wrapped package. Without a word he hands it to Jame. She sees the shocked expression on her Jedi’s face as he pulls out a Corellian blaster in a nerf-leather holster. An old DL-44. She sees a flurry of so many memories rushing over his face. He moves the holster down and hooks it on one of the vacant hooks on his hip. The blaster hangs there as if it had always been. Her eyes widen as she sees the lighter colored leather, in the shape of a slightly larger triangle. Slightly larger than the teeth that decorate the belt.

As if it was from a different _akul._

“How?” he asks Gregor. “I’d thought I’d lost it when I left y’all.”

“I kept it, then gave it to Peck and Bozo when I transferred. They arranged to have it put in a locker here and gave me the location and combination. First chance I’ve been able to get it.”

J’oh’s vision blurs as Jame—once known as Taliesin Croft--brings his forehead to Gregor’s. The two men hold each other tightly, ignoring the looks of passers-by. They break away, a half-second before that damned grin flashes.

“At least now, we’ll have somebody who can hit a target,” Croft says.

She marches up to him with a sharp expression on her face. She begins to poke his chest with every word. She shoves the hard-won prize at Gregor. “Oh, yeah? Just for that you don’t get the prize, Gambler.”

J’oh smiles inwardly, while keeping the fierce expression on her face, continuing to read the riot act to Jame. Their eyes lock in understanding, through the snark and the mock-anger. Both of them see Gregor’s expression as he holds the prize.

A miniature, stuffed version of a Republic clonetrooper. One that has seen plenty of wear, but appears to be the most valuable thing Gregor has ever owned.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cyn smiling as she holds up her comm, recording the moment.

Later, as the four of them sit on the deck in the Beskad, sipping expensive caf from Gregor’s other gift, she smiles as she listens to Jame and Gregor’s laughter. Cyn catches her eye and and returns the expression.

J’ohlana Wren nods, then sits back contentedly as she watches the two people that she loves the most in the universe.

_Family._


	10. Epilogue: The Present and the Future Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then and there; here and now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **To My Brother**
> 
> Give me your hand, my brother, search my face;   
> Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame;   
> For we have made an end of all things base.   
> We are returning by the road we came. 
> 
> Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,   
> And I am in the field where men must fight.   
> But in the gloom I see your laurell’d head   
> And through your victory I shall win the light. 
> 
>  
> 
> Siegfried Sassoon, 1918

**7976 CRC**

Meglann wipes her eyes as Drop finishes the story. His warm voice—a counterpoint to its usual mixture of controlled hardness and snark—had painted the picture in her mind, of the events of the past. A time when she still had been in the last year of her intermediate school, trying to navigate mid-teen crushes, as well as her own adolescent anger at her mother having left to go off to war. 

Leaving and then dying in the first year of that cauldron. She sees the tears pouring from Dani’s purple eyes, as well. Meglann reaches out and takes Dani’s warm hand in hers. “How did you know all of this, Drop? You weren’t always present for some it.”

“Gregor and Cyn told me a lot of it later. After J’oh—” He stops, then gathers himself before looking back at Dani. He reaches out and brushes some of the tears from her cheek. She leans into his touch. “When he could, Jame and I talked about it, a long time after. After he formed the Dragons and the Tempest squadron, into something other than just a cell.”

The door opens after a quick knock. A tall young woman, one who appears to in her early twenties, stand in the door, looking tentatively at them. Dani smiles and beckons her in. The young woman’s eyes; one dark blue, the other amber, like her father’s. 

All in this room know that even though Talle appears to be in her early twenties, she is only about nineteen in her chronological age. Her rapid aging had appeared to stop when she had approximated a young girl of five or so.

“Hey, Droplet,” Meglann says. She watches as Talle takes hold of her father’s arm. She kisses his cheek, then brushes his own tears away. His face brightens; he smiles with an expression that can only be described as one of fierce love and pride. His smile grows as another young woman, very close in looks to both Talle and Drop, walks in. Drop holds his other arm out, dropping Dani’s hand. 

His birthborn daughter, Faith Jaquindo, moves into the embrace of her newfound father and older sister— _well sort of_ , Meglann thinks— kissing them both. Faith wears the uniform of an Ensign of engineers in the Alliance Navy. 

“Just catching our Commodore and our baby Commander up on some ancient history,” he says. Meglann punches his arm at the last, but brushes it off quickly. He drops one eye in a wink. 

Dani looks puzzled. She focuses on Drop. “Who was this MaDall? What happened to her? I know Dav never mentioned her.”

Drop nods at the mention of the ex-ISB agent—now the commander of all fighters—the CAG of this carrier. “Yeah. I pieced it together with him awhile back. He lost touch when he got booted out of the ISB.”

“I can fill in a little,” Talle says. “Sabine told me about some of her adventures. She went off on her own after the Ghosts freed some Wookiee slaves from Kessel. She managed to destroy MaDall’s whole operation on Oon. I think she might’ve convinced her that she needed to turn her talents to fighting the Empire.”

Drop nods. “I think we might’ve gotten some of our intel from her on some of the slaves—the troopers. Tal, J’oh, and Gregor did a lot of good based on that information. Guess Cyn probably reconnected with her, when she was working for the Mando gangsters.” He grins. “During one of the times that she got fired from being a Handmaiden. Before she eventually got rehired.”

“Which time?” Meglann and Dani ask in unison. Their laughter warms them at the thought of Cyn and her misadventures—some still ongoing. 

It falls after a moment as others trip their memories. Meglann knows that all of them are thinking of their dead. She shakes her head and looks at her family—both close and extended. It’s time to think of their living. 

All of their lost would want that. She focuses on one face in particular. One that she had believed lost after a battle on a dead world. 

One that she and Dani—both Force-null—had been shown was alive, but still lost in the Force. Shown by one who had lost so much, but had never lost two things—even when those around him had. 

She looks at Drop’s newfound daughter; she thinks of Talle’s good friend and Dani’s adopted daughter, Jamelyn, the Elector of Corellia—one referred to as the Hope of Her World—always capitalized. A young woman, the niece of Jame Blackthorn, now on duty.

 _Maybe none of us had lost these things_ , she thinks. _They were always here._

_Faith and hope._

+=+=+=+=+=

Rex stares at the stuffed trooper sitting on the dining table in the forward compartment of the _Beskad._ He shifts his eyes to Blackthorn— _Croft, King, and Covenant_ , who sips his caf and stares at the bulkhead. About midway through their talk, he and Blackthorn had turfed Hondo out of the bunkroom and forced him to take over the watch. Melch had followed him; being the one of the pair with some semblance of emotional intelligence, as well as giving them their space, and keeping Hondo from wrecking their hyperspace travel and killing them all.

Rex waits patiently for Blackthorn to come back from his memories. He smiles at Castle’s handiwork in the cargo compartment of the _Nu_ -class. Deck-to-overhead partitions divide the bay into several compartments, with a central corridor aft of the dining room, the galley, the bunk room and the common room. One private cabin, an extra head, and the nursery—in reality a lifepod—make up everything forward of the storage and engine compartment in the rear. 

A comfortable home for a family that never was. A home now used as an occasional base for the Covenant of Corellia and any of his large, extended family of choice and of blood. One that hadn’t replaced his lost ones, but supplemented their memory. 

“So what’s next for you, Rex?” Blackthorn asks. 

Rex smiles. “Nola persuaded Draven to give a me a job in the Special Forces. She only had to twist his arm a little. I might be teaming up with young Andor for a couple of missions. Hera and Nola made sure I got a promotion to Commander.”

“About damned time,” Blackthorn observes. He falls silent again. 

“Don’t worry, Admiral,” Rex says. “I’ll finish helping get your little network set up, to try and find Malachor again.”

Blackthorn raises his hand. “It’s no matter, Rex. Like Gregor told me he told Castle. It’s what being free means.”

Rex nods. “I know. I think he, in the end, was the most free of us all. He never let anything get him down, when he got to Seelos.” Rex grins. “I think that you and J’oh gave him that ability, the way that you treated him—with respect and love.” He manages to keep from choking. “I’ll always be grateful to you for that. To her memory.”

He sees Blackthorn look away. “I think that Gregor gave us the ability to love again, Rex,” he whispers. “He was probably more broken than either of us. He could’ve just sat there and taken what we gave him. But he gave us his all, as well. He made it where we could give him our all. It’s what we both needed.”

Rex falls quiet. In is mind, he is reciting a litany. A litany taught to him by certain Mando drill instructors. One that not all of his brothers had taken to, but many of them had. 

_Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum._

_I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal_. He ensures that J’ohlana Wren-Blackthorn’s name is there—next to Gregor’s. 

He looks at Blackthorn again. He takes a deep breath. “Admiral, I’ve seen some strange things in my life. A lot of them centered around Force users.” He stops again to gather himself. “I think that I’ll try to have faith about what you’ve told me about Ahsoka. That’s she didn’t die at Vader’s hands on Malachor. I only heard a little bit of what Ezra had told Hera when I got back to Lothal. I think it’s at least enough for me to take her name off of my Remembrance.”

Rex stands, as does Blackthorn. “That’s more than I could hope for, Rex,” Blackthorn replies. “One more who has hope. One more who has faith in her.”

“I’ve always had that,” Rex whispers as the two men embrace. “It was the hope that I lost.”

Blackthorn turns and lifts the stuffed toy. He wordlessly hands it to Rex. Rex shakes his head. “No, Admiral. This was Gregor’s home, as much as Seelos was with Wolffe and I. It should stay here.” After a moment, Blackthorn nods and returns the trooper to the table.

Both of them break away and sit again. Rex sees Blackthorn’s eyes grow distant again, focused on the bulkhead. A slight smile appears on his face. He appears to be listening

Rex knows he is somewhere else. He closes his eyes, hearing that high, clear voice, as well as Gregor’s in his mind. 

Gregor’s laughing voice tells him to keep that faith and hope.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka comes to herself in the depths of the Force. She smiles as the warm tricolored light appears in her head. She focuses on the rush of memories that she had experienced during her meditation. 

Morai arcs over her and rests on her shoulder. She tightens her focus on the familiar face.

“Hey, Bait,” she says. “Had quite a trip down memory lane.”

The crooked grin—the expression that warms several parts of her when it flows into her mind, even when she isn’t necessarily in communication with its owner, breaks through the haze of the Force. 

“Yep. Even had a little visit from my hunt-sister, from before I knew she was alive.” He takes a deep breath, his smile softening. “I remember that robe. How I wanted so much to curl up with you in it and never come off of Maz’s world.”

She Smirks, then allows the laughter to bubble up. “I seem to think of at least one time when I wrapped you in it for several hours.” The Smirk fades. “One of my best memories of when we reconnected.”

“Mine too, sweetie,” he replies. He falls silent, just drinking in her face in his mind. She knows that he had moved to his quarters, away from Rex, after a brief glimpse of her friend. Her heart twists with the idea of Rex’s sadness. She wishes that she could show him that she is alive, just like she was able to show Dani, Meglann, and Nola a few weeks ago, through Jame.

Apparently that was a one-time only offer. 

She shakes her head, giving Morai a start. She reaches up and ruffles her feathers, allowing the convor to nip gently at her bare arm. She smiles at Jame’s expression in her mind. “What, Bait?” she asks. 

He starts as if awakened, then smiles ruefully. “Just thinking on how beautiful you look, love. Just the same as you did when I last actually saw you.” They both look down as they remember that night on Takodana, four years ago. When she had pushed him and the others away; after her mind had given her a Force-glimpse into the Dark Lord’s mind and heart.

She pushes that thought away, wrapping it into a tiny ball, shoving it into the deepest part of her. Jame notices, but he says nothing. _I can’t tell you, yet, ie’ar,_ she thinks. It hurts too much.

She smiles again. “You’re such a charmer, Bait. Being trapped on some shithole of a world, as well as in the Force, probably hasn’t done much for my complexion.” She searches his gaze; sees the gold flecks in the green of his eyes—flecks that one has to know that they are there to see them. “I’ve missed you, too,” she whispers. 

“I—” He falls silent, then opens his mouth again. “I wonder what it would’ve been like, if we’d decided in that cave on Shili, almost twenty years ago, to pull the world in after us and stay there hunting and laughing, allowing the world to claim us when it was our time. To be together.”

She remains quiet, then allows the smile to soften. “We both know it wasn’t in the cards for us, babe. It wasn’t who we were. I also think we wouldn’t have built the Links, either. We wouldn’t have a family, such as it is.” Ahsoka looks at her knees. “I also think the darkness would’ve found us eventually.”

They drink in each other’s faces for several moments. Finally she says, “It was beautiful to see you and J’oh together, in your memories,” she says. “I felt the love for her from you. I also felt your grief for me. I know that you miss her, Jame.”

He looks away, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. She reaches out, knowing that they can’t always touch—or can’t receive the sensation of touch.

She gasps as she feels his warm skin under her fingers. _Thank you, weird Force thing_ , she breathes. Ahsoka sees his lips twist in a brief grin at her thoughts. She lifts his chin. “I never begrudged you her memory or her love. She told me when I was deep in the Force before that there was room in your heart for both of us. Just like there’s room for the other Links. We both know that maybe J’oh may be in the fabric of that heart with me.”

She marvels that she can feel his tears against her hand. She allows hers to join them. 

Later, when she is alone in her mind and in her thoughts, the voice of one of her guides—the one usually overlaid with that of the Daughter, and incongruously, Qui-Gon Jinn, speaks in her mind through Morai. 

“Hey _cyar’ika_ ,” J’ohlana Wren’s mind-essence says to her. She sees a glimpse of the laughter and the mischievous—Jame had described it as devilish—smile. “How’s our dumbass?”

“Same as always,” Ahsoka replies. On a whim, she reaches out and touches the smiling lips. 

“Yep, babe,” J’oh says. “I’m as here as I’ll ever be.”

“I wish I could share your thoughts and presence with him,” Ahsoka says. 

“Not in the cards, babe,” J’oh says, unconsciously echoing her own earlier words. “I know I’m there in his heart. Along with you and Shak. With Ti as well. I know that I’m there with the others who love and are loved by him.

“Just like he once said to your master, you’re his future. You and the others. Just like I’m his past.” Ahsoka starts to protest, but feels warm fingers against her lips. “You have to keep the faith as well, Ahsoka. Just like you showed me a new path, all those years ago on Carlacc, I might be able to show you one. At least a future. I can’t tell you what it is, or how long it’ll take, but you and he and your other loves have a future together.”

Ahsoka realizes that J’oh’s voice has once again become intertwined with Qui-Gon’s and the Daughter’s.

“Keep the faith,” the tri-toned voice says. J’oh’s voice can be heard over the others, strong and full of life. 

Ahsoka closes her eyes, allowing her mind to rest in the Force. 

She moves to the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who’ve read.


End file.
